Cheap Venetian Blinds
by Schmuzz
Summary: A young gangster named Dean Winchester meets the Russian immigrant Kastyiyel Krushnic - oh wait, sorry, Castiel Novak - and as it turns out, having romantic relations with another man in 1929 isn't the worst of their problems.
1. Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Guy

_March 2nd, 1929_

It was cold and Dean Winchester was running out of options. His fifth order of murder hadn't gone as well as he and his brother had hoped. It worked out; the technical part, at least. Doctor Vincent Romano was pushing up daisies and all that – provided flowers sprouted from eighty feet under the Bay. But from the evil eye any Italian Mac or Jane in the neighborhood would throw at him, you'd think Dean had killed Lucifer – one of the most notorious dons on the entire East coast and his _boss_ – or ratted out all the speakeasies in Brooklyn.

Doctor Romano was of the sensitive, saintly sort. Always doing house calls in the middle of the night and refusing even a cup of coffee and a quarter if he thought the poor immigrant family he was helping couldn't afford it. He got his slew of vaccines and medical supplies through loans from the boss's particular circle of the market, and while the regular Joe adored Romano's generosity with the drugs, Lucifer's finances certainly didn't. After nearly a year and a grand wearing on their relationship, Sam and Dean Winchester were sent in to take care of matters.

Sam, of course, just kept watch and helped hide the evidence. Everyone knew what had happened, Missing Person's case or not. But even with the protection that came from being a soldier and the decent accompanying pay, Sam wasn't cut out for gang life – truth was, the both of them would have been happier on the western side of the country, lying on beaches and having one of those elusive 'normal lives'; or at least a job you could actually write home about.

Or hell, Dean figured, staring down at the three piece suit in his hands, maybe they just wanted to be warm for once.

While the whole disappearing act for Doctor Romano went off fine, there was still the typical collateral damage that had to be taken care of. Such as the bullet holes in his suit. Weren't doctors not supposed to do harm, or something? And here the guy pulls out a flashy revolver as if it can match dual Colts and the conmen on the opposite sides of the guns. "You just can't trust people anymore, Sammy." That had been his line as he stared down at the corpse two nights prior, nursing a pair of grazing wounds as well as the cold air as it shifted through the tatters in his clothes, stabbing his skin.

Now, Brooklyn had no shortage of trusty, off-the-boat Italians who would fix up his clothes, give him a cup of something good and let him flirt with their daughters for an hour or so, but those same sorts had also made up the bulk of Romano's free customers.

Basically, Dean had gotten kicked out of the Family for a bit. Probably just two months, until old wounds healed up or he got sent out to take care of a rival gang, but in the mean time, his clothes needed fixing, and the only place he had been able to find was –

This.

The shop was on the stretch of road separating most of the Italian ghettos from the Russian ones. It was one of the only open buildings on the street, mostly since the place had been the sight of turf wars and vandals and break-ins since Dean was a kid and Dad still had the decency to rush him along the sidewalk when they reached that particular part of the city. The actual building had venetian blinds at a lazy half-mast, brick sidewalls, and a front side painted white that was only somewhat chipping. Between the first and second story there was a painted banner that had something… something in the Mother Tongue etched up top, and then, almost as if it was an after-thought, a quick advertisement for _'timely repairs, washing, and deliveries_.' It was the only store Dean could find without officially walking into No Man's Land; about fifty paces south of the building. So Dean settled himself to this place, squared his jaw, and pushed open the front door.

"Hello," said a man standing behind a low counter at the end of the shop. "Can I help you?" Dean felt the cold air scatter into the room as the door closed behind him. He listened to his shoes clack on the tile as he moved up to the table the other man was stationed at.

Dean laid the shirt, vest, and jacket out for the other to see. "I was wondering if you could do something about this." The man had an odd sort of look – an expression impressive in its ultimate neutrality. He didn't seem at all surprised to see an Italian mutt walk into his shop and demand, of all things, his advertised abilities. At any rate, the man picked up the garments, one by one. He didn't look aggressively Russian, this guy who was poking through the bullet holes on his cotton button-down. He had an accent, of course; that low, raspy voice that tried to insert v's into every crevice of conversation that he spoke, and hissed out common sounds till his vocal chords sounded rubbed out with street gravel; but he wasn't a burly, wide shouldered man with a fur cap or a bomb under his arm – in fact, he appeared to be just a bit shorter than Dean himself. Average. Dean let his eyes move from the tailor's face to his hands, or rather, his outfit that the man was inspecting.

"Hum," the tailor grunted. "These bullet holes?" It was as far from a question as it could be.

"Guilty as charged," Dean replied, not even sorry.

"Nothing hit its target, did it?"

"Well, not on my side. I have better aim."

He hummed again. "Doctor Romano helped deliver my sister's child," he said, matter of fact. Dean felt a tug somewhere down low, as if a rug had been pulled out from under him. He bit the corner of his mouth, to stop from stammering or, God forbid, apologizing.

Did Dean Winchester have regrets? Quite a few, actually, with new ones joining the pile all the time – but it didn't mean he was about to share them. Especially not with some first generation Russian who was probably going to kick him out of his store in the next thirty seconds. His hand slid out, ready to take his clothes back, hitting needle calloused fingers in the process.

The tailor startled back at the touch. "Anyway," he carried on in a business tone. Very official, very serious – that, at least, was perfectly acceptable; stereotypical; safe. "The holes are too big to just stitch up, I'll have to find material to patch it." He struck a look to the doorway behind him, squinting. It probably led to the flat upstairs, or a back room, or both. Around this time Dean comprehended that either the tailor didn't care, or was just brutally heartless.

Or maybe his sister was a bitch.

And then he tried to guess how bad the guy would sell him short. He could imagine it now: A few nickels for specialized needles, fabric taxes and maybe can you get back to me next week? Next thing he knew his suit would be cut up for spare parts on the next third cousin who bothered to walk in. The schmuck. This was why Dean never bothered –

"…Yes, I think I have some white Egyptian cotton left over. The suit material, I needed to buy anyway for a wedding…" He took the clothes, folding each article up into small squares, before taking out a receipt pad and pencil. "Name please?"

"Dean Winchester."

"Like the gun?" Dean tried to ignore the smirk coming up on his face.

"Like the gun," he parroted. The tailor scribbled down a few more lines before pinning the note to the clothes pile. He spun it around so Dean could read it:

Dean Winchester

Patch x2 – .50

Standard Cleaning – .75

Stains – .30

Total – 1.55

Which wasn't exactly a free cup of coffee and getting a date with a pretty girl, but it wasn't a kick to the teeth either, and as far as Dean was concerned, that was as good as it would get.

"I can pay you –"

"Now," the man said. "Everyone has to pay before the job is done. It's policy."

The sudden earnestness caught Dean off guard. "And what happens when I come in tomorrow and my suit's not here?"

"Then I'm sure that you'll tie me up and break my fingers until I remember how to do my job properly," he said bluntly. "Or maybe I'll have an 'accident'. Or maybe the store my family and I have owned for eight years will be burned down during Sunday Mass." He looked back down at the pile of black and white between them and picked it up. "And what happens when you come here without paying first? You shove me against the wall for bothering to ask, and I have to work an extra shift to make sure I have enough to eat. I'm not new to this place, Mr. Winchester. Pay or get out. I think I've been fair."

Dean wasn't sure whether the man deserved some sign of grudging respect or a punch to his windpipe. He leaned forward, "Hey, mac –"

"Mr. Novak."

"What?"

"If you wish to address me, please call me Mr. Novak." Mr. Novak blinked. "You were saying?" Dean glared at the other and realized he had just forgotten. Damn it.

"So tomorrow, when I come in here nine o' clock sharp…"

"Your suit shall be here, good as new."

Dean stared the other man down with contempt. Mouthy bastard. If Sam were here, he might have said that the guy was just doing his job. It was a hard world out there, especially for immigrants running a trade shop, customers limited to their extended family and friends. But Sam wasn't here, and Dean just stared at the man's dark blue eyes for a very long time before digging his chequebook out of his pocket.

"Fine," he muttered, scowl on his face. He scribbled down the name, date, the damned thirty five cents and ripped the slip away from the book so hard it nearly cut itself in half. He threw it at Mr. Novak, not doing much good, being made of something as flimsy as paper. "How's that, then?"

The tailor looked down at the paper and tilted his head to one side, as if he couldn't quite grasp what he was supposed to do with the thing. Dean was about to make a few smart suggestions before the man merely folded it up and pocketed it. "That's fine, Mr. Winchester. I'll start on your suit in a few hours. Just come back tomorrow, at nine like you said, and it will be ready."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm holdin' you to that," Dean said, turning away.

"Of course, sir." He wasn't quite sure if Mr. Novak was too foreign to understand the American brand of sarcasm, or if he was just plain odd enough to get through such a hellish job without needing it. Soon Dean was back on the pavement, back in the cold, and staring down the road that led into the Italian neighborhoods; his home that currently didn't fancy him so much.

Oh well, he thought, sinking his head down into his chest to ward off the winds stabbing at his throat.

He started walking up Brighton 7th street until he was away from the grimy little tailor shop that was very much his last resort.

Away from Mr. Novak, words burning in his mind like impressions on his skin.

**xxxx**

**A/N: Yeah, I got into Supernatural. Yeah. I got into Dean/Castiel. And, yeah, I'm a sucker for Roaring Twenties settings and mafias and whatever else there is. All of this was inspired by moushkas' oneshot "Привет, любимый! (Hello, Lover!)" which can be found over at deancastiel at livejournal.**


	2. He Died, Murdered Not Five Years Ago

Sam and Jess were taking up a good third of the kitchen eating breakfast when Dean stumbled in. He was fully dressed, as if a shaved face would make up for his slogging movements. "Where's my hat?" he mumbled, reaching for Sam's coffee cup while the other wasn't looking, preoccupied with passing a plate of toast to Jess.

"It's only eight." she commented; the toast made a distinctive crunch as she bit into it. She was wearing a short house coat; blonde hair still long and curly and gold and toes curled up in some long socks as she tried to ignore the shaky heater humming its way through the room. As far as lady-friends went, Dean liked Jess. She wasn't a prude and she never tried to drag Sam away from him; and to be fair, she and his brother did have a few things in common: Disregard for fashionable hairstyles and a More-Intelligent-Than-Thou attitude, for example. "What are you doing up on a Saturday?"

"He has a hot date with the tailor shop," Sam said, walking towards the pair after he had left the table. He crossed the room in about three steps. _Freak_, Dean thought on habit.

"Here." Sam clapped a grayed fedora on his brother's head. "You left it on the door knob. Idiot." He looked down and caught sight of his cup in Dean's palm. Jess laughed into her hands as Sam twisted his face into a scowl and Dean attempted Morse code with smug facial expressions.

Jess spoke up again after she thought their little tryst was finished. "So you found some place that hasn't shunned you yet?"

"Um," Dean looked around at the peeling yellow wallpaper next to the icebox and wondered how long he could stall for time. Jess – really Jessica Moore and using the shortened version of her god-given name was another insignificant thing she and Sam both did - knew that the Winchester brothers dabbled in the darker sides of American society; but, well, most people knew that. She had just moved up from New Jersey a few years after Sam and Dean had gone back to their old – one of their old – childhood places of residence; Jess had been living with a friend until Sam had come in and… Dean wasn't quite sure what he did, but eventually she had become an added attachment to their place, and not long after she had begun to question Sam and Dean as to why they always kept knives in their shoes and a firearm tucked somewhere and why they were called out to 'work' at midnight on a Tuesday and, well, like mentioned before, Jess wasn't stupid. Her disapproval of their particular line of work was certain, but she was blessedly not adamant to know the details – not enough to _ask_, at least, if only to keep her boyfriend and his brother in her good graces. Dean got the impression that Jess was more or less forced to live on the outskirts of their lives sometimes, but if that was how they all managed to live together, cramped into a two bedroom apartment in the Italian boroughs of Brooklyn, then so be it. It suited Dean just fine, at least.

"…Not really," he said finally, shifting on the tile and in his skin simultaneously as two pairs of eyes stared him down.

"He had to find a Russian place." Sam said pointedly, as if Dean was Sam's daughter or something, and had just arrived home with a bob and rolled stockings and a guy named Maurice on her metaphorical arm. Or_ something_.

"It's just a tailor," Dean countered, feeling annoyance burn in him. He wasn't quite sure if it was inspired by the jabs from Sam combined with his forcefully early rising, or if it was just the idea of seeing that infuriatingly apathetic man at the shop again. Because. Well. Dean drained Sam's coffee, waved and slipped out the door.

Dean hated plenty of things, being taken advantage of particularly. Even with the receipt and the man's solid explanation, Dean kept on thinking of how his coat would be lost forever and how he'd be out ten bucks trying to replace it and this and that and everything else under the sun that could go wrong; so much so that by the time he was pulling open the front door to the shop his mouth was pressed in a thin line and his hands had become trembling white fists.

Mr. Novak was sitting behind the counter just like the day before. He looked tired, too. There was a newspaper opened next to him – an article he was half-reading. "Good morning," he said politely, before Dean even thought to cough for the man's attention. "You're early."

Dean cast a gaze to the right wall, finding the foggy memory of a clock that might have been hanging there from his first visit. He was rewarded with the time shown on a white face with black hands. "Just by five minutes," he replied, thinking of the two and a half miles he had walked through Brooklyn. The weather had promised to be bearable that day, and if he wasn't dying of the cold Dean took the option to exercise. As the heat of the building came to him, he felt the tips of his ears burn painfully, and his cheeks go numb and rosy. "Anyway," he continued, inching further into the store. "Do you have my suit?"

Mr. Novak blinked and straightened up, as if he had forgotten all about Dean or his job or Friday afternoon's tantrum in general. Dean was about to say something a lot less friendly to jar the other man's mind into action, but then Mr. Novak slowly swung off the stool he was perched on. "One minute." He promised, shuffling out of sight, his white shirt the last thing to fade out, back disappearing down the dusty corridor behind the counter.

It was odd, Dean thought; furrowing his brows and looking at his iced fingers. The anger burned out of him rather impressively, practically the same instant the other man exited the room: The force of heat – in his mind, in his gut – evaded him entirely, until he stood half frozen; his mind clear for the first time since Doctor Romano's death.

Dean hated that feeling.

He twitched his hands to make sure that they weren't as useless as he feared, and tried to distract himself by looking around the shop.

Predictably, there wasn't much. The front desk, a mail slot in the bleak white door. Two chairs and a coat rack sitting against a large window, its shades completely open this time.

It was clean, at least. But Dean had seen suit lapels that held his interest better than this room.

The left wall seemed to mirror the right in the fashion of having one stationary fixture stuck way up high. Versus a clock, however, there was a painting of a clean shaven Jesus Christ, who looked more like a dandy Dean had met at a juice joint that one time – the one that Sam had ended up knowing, small world - versus an ethereal figure from 1900-plus years ago. Figures. Dean went back to drumming his fingers on the antique wood. That was the only decent piece of furniture in the place. Then again, there wasn't much to pick from.

Mr. Novak came out and Dean could feel the scrutinizing stare that was now plastered on his face. It stuck on stubbornly, until even the tailor was forced to stare curiously around the two of them. Dean was silently offered his clothes inside a small, tan parcel, which he leafed through meticulously; feeling the fabric and trying to find a mistake.

A full minute later he glanced up, not sure if he would have been happier if his rotten premonitions were right in the first place; at least _then_ he'd have an excuse to yell – to get back a more extreme feeling than just a mild irritation. He was grasping for something internally, and finding nothing of substance _there_, resorted to clenching the suit in his hands, feeling the soft fabric held together by the ends of Mr. Novak's fingers and skills.

"…Thanks," he said, feeling as if some fundamental part of him was fleeing at the word, ripped right out of his soul.

Mr. Novak probably saw that. Appreciated the fact that what Dean said, if reluctantly, was a miracle in itself, so he blessedly kept his mouth shut and sank back in his seat. He cast another look around the room, probably still wondering what Dean had been staring at. Dean couldn't quite force his feet to move more than a couple paces back as he warily watched the other man examine the walls. He shifted, and buying some time he pulled out his cigarette case and lighter.

"You want one?" he asked, not really thinking about it. He realized, with a shock, that it was _chivalry_ holding him back, refusing to treat the incident simply as an insignificant event, meant to be discarded and forgotten about sometime next week. His unconscious reached out to the other as if there was something there worth seeing. His subconscious self was obviously crazy, never mind the fact that if it ever voiced itself, it sounded like Sam. It felt wrong to stay any longer, but the contemplation of simply leaving without another word made for an even worse impression on his imagination, so he resolved to stay for the five minutes it took to finish smoking. Then he would leave, and hopefully never come back.

"No thanks," the tailor said. "I roll my own."

"My Father rolled his own," Dean said. "Used to, anyway." He hadn't spoken of his Father in ages.

"Did he find a good brand, then?"

"He died." Dean focused on the grayed mountain of ash on the end of his stick, piling up and balancing. "Murdered. Not five years ago." Mr. Novak just stared as if he hadn't really heard Dean.

"Oh." He finally said – Dean was expecting the second half of that knee-jerk reaction; a mangled 'sorry' that didn't mean a damn thing; he was so used to it that he was surprised when it didn't come. Instead Dean followed a cloud of smoke as it rose up from his mouth; idly, he questioned whether the other man had ever killed anyone, or, if not that, then maybe watched someone else die. Dean liked to think neither happened to the man – for some reason – but there were just miles of stories of immigrants from the Eastern countries which had enough sorrow to drown a more fortunate person. Now Dean could only think of that morosely dull Jungle book Sam had made him read last summer. If the tailor even _tried_ to make a socialist speech, Dean was going to hit him.

Mr. Novak glared at Dean's cigarette a moment before ripping off a dollar-sized piece of the morning paper and handing it out. "If you don't mind…" he didn't, and Dean took it, letting the ash float into the creases his palm made in the paper. "What were you staring at?" he asked, taking back his decisive silence. They shared another look.

"Just the shop. You've got to see, you know? For the hell of it, I guess."

"There isn't much to see here."

"Is the place new?"

"My family bought the building in 1922 – seven years is not very new to me. I don't know about you." Dean blinked, trying and failing to recall a fact of that sort being hissed out of Mr. Novak's mouth the night previous. "It's fine." Mr. Novak said, taking the flinch as a sign of embarrassment. "Adding more appealing features is a good idea, but it'd just be painting even more targets on the place – we can't afford that." Dean took one last long draw of his smoke and crushed the cigarette into the ashes, snuffing the tiny fire in his hands.

"They can't steal a coat of paint," he replied, before finally finding the will to turn and leave. The crumpled up paper and its contents were carried deep into a side alley by the winter winds. Dean crammed the clothes' package between the crook of his arm and stuck his hands in his coat pockets, trying not to think that his parting words had sounded friendly.

**xxxx**

**A/N: 'The Jungle book' is a reference to Upton Sinclair's early twentieth century novel 'The Jungle' which might ring a bell if you've ever taken an American History course, of which I've taken several, living in New England and all. It was pretty much a soapbox for how horrible the American meatpacking industry was for Eastern European immigrants, and how only socialism could save us. It had the same amount of misery as Supernatural without the funniness or charm or hot guys. So, yeah, don't read that.**


	3. Kastyiyel Krushnic

Dean showed up at the tailor shop on a Wednesday in the middle of the month. When he said that he wasn't going back into Mr. Novak's bleak little establishment on the North-west side of Brighton Beach, he had meant it, no matter to the fleeting thoughts of the man; whose appearance – lashes and strong chin and a shadow of stubble permanently cast around his cheeks; eyes dark enough for a summer night sky, etcetera etcetera - had been enhanced in his memory – or less biased by rage – like the image of a lover temporarily gone.

At any rate, he and his brother had been tasked with smuggling several thousand dollars onto a particular box car heading towards Baltimore that Monday morning, too early for the sun. Easier than booze, at least; it only required the two of them. But a suitcase was noticeable, and instead he was walking next to Sam on the metal tracks with more than 120 hundred-dollar bills and stock shares folded up tight and sewn into their clothes. They ended up using their pocket knives and Jess' seam rippers more than their guns. The plan worked, of course, or at least _their_ portion did, with the added bonus of not having any bloodstains or dead doctors turn up, for which Dean was grateful for; only one train officer had been knocked out from behind. However, their fast work to rid themselves of the cash created spreading tatters on their suits, and at that sorry state Dean was just going to toss their clothes when Sam had indignantly sniffed at the idea, pulling at his frayed shirt collar and complaining, "Jess gave me this,"

Well _of_ _course_.

So Sam accompanied Dean to the shop this time, fabrics tucked under their arms.

Dean pulled open the door for the both of them and walked inside. For the first time, Dean saw someone besides his own self, leaning over the counter, talking to the tailor.

He was blonde, with pale eyes. Polish, maybe, or French, he had a face that made it aggravatingly difficult to tell – sort of like him and his brother, if he was honest. He was cocky, definitely that sort – you didn't need a race for that. He slouched in his coat like a lanky little bird. He was nodding and saying something that could never resemble English. Dean strained his ears, wondering if he could recognize perhaps an insult aimed at him – cuss words were the only thing he had bothered to learn in another language. Just so he could tell when to swing a fist, you know – prove he was serious. But there wasn't anything in the other's speech that Dean recognized. It didn't even _sound_ like words; most of these languages never did – just noise, flooding the room with rough, clipped sounds. Eventually though, Mr. Novak nodded over the stranger's shoulder to him, or well, _them_, and the other man turned. "Ah," he said, understanding obvious. He clasped the tailor on the arm and said brightly, "_Something, something, something_, _Kastyiyel_." And walked past the brothers, out of the shop, without hardly a tip of the hat to any of them.

The both of them walked closer. "This is my brother, Sam." Dean said, nodding to his right. The tailor probably knew as much, if he knew of Dean's exploits the first time he ever showed up. Still, Mr. Novak twisted and regarded Sam with his standard look of patient inquisitiveness. Sam didn't waste any time and stuck out his hand.

The other man's eyes flicked down to it, back up, before grasping it. "Hello Sam," then, quick blue eyes sliding over; "Mr. Winchester." Dean was tempted to say something back, but swallowed instead.

"Is that your name?" Sam asked, hands back in his pockets. "Kastyiyel? Dean said Novak, but that doesn't seem…" _foreign enough_ was the right phrase that everyone in the room heard without Sam continuing on. Dean had noticed the word the stranger spoke as something that sounded vaguely pronounceable, but he didn't get excited. It was probably just a peculiar good-bye. He had met Vladimirs and Olegs and Yegors and Ivans, but nothing that even came _close_ to Kastyiyel. There was no room to be unique as an immigrant – not even with names. He and his brother, of course, had gotten off lucky - all of their friends and allies were either a Joe or an Anthony.

But then Mr. Novak nodded slightly and said, "Yes." And, well, damn.

Sam had always been a bit nicer than he was. More personable; easier to talk to, that sort of thing. He had to be, in a way. That was how they worked as a team – one of them picked up where the other slacked. That way, links could be as weak as they wanted, the chain still held, and they had managed to keep their skins for twenty-six, twenty-two years.

"So, is it Kastyiyel Novak?" Sam asked.

"Kastyiyel Krushnic. I'm not too sure how that Novak happened."

"Sounds like a damn poor officer got a hold of your papers," Dean supposed. "So how d'you spell all of that?" Sam gave him a warning look, Dean ignored it.

Kastyiyel quirked his mouth and reached down for the receipt pad. "First," he said. "Two suits needing repairs?" both men let the clothes drop on the table top. Kastyiyel poked his fingers through them, measuring the holes with the stub of the pencil he was using. "Hope you two weren't the ones who made off with half of the neighborhood's saving investments. Heard there were some photographers there."

"Like that ever helps them," Dean said. Kastyiyel eyed him in that stern way, an expression that came so easily, and Sam cut in:

"_We_ didn't do that. It was just…"

"Sneaking everything out?" the tailor said. "Well, it'll be one fifty for both, ready by Saturday, and," he bent down and scribbled the bill on the little yellowed off pad before turning it over for the other two to see. "That might be easier for you two."

Kastyiytel Krushnic was re-written as '_Castiel Novak'_; "It's my real name, as far as this place is concerned." It wasn't said in a bitter way, Dean found, moving his lips to try and get a grasp on the letters in front of him.

Sam let a cheque slide into Castiel's fingers. Dean tried not to feel embarrassed about the lack of fuss Sam put up about it; he got an ahead's notice, he told himself, not that it made any difference with _Sam_. "Thank-you." He said with utmost sincerity. Sam always sounded like that actually, Dean figured, looking back up again. Castiel was still looking at him; a zoned out, soul piercing stare, even as he and Sam bowed their heads in farewell and turned away.

Out on the street, the two of them watched a few women wander in the opposite direction, holding bags and small children. The mothers were older; peasant skirts instead of the shorter stuff. Sam sighed; he had been doing that a lot – those world-weary heaves of breath that kind of made Dean angry and sad at the same time; he was older, anyway, wasn't he the one that was supposed to be getting all aged and jaded? If there was one thing Sam excelled in, it was probably a flare for the dramatic; he had never really outgrown the teen-age characteristics. _Well_, Dean thought, glancing up, _neither did he… _

"Does Lucifer have another job for us?" Sam's words trickled into the air as little white clouds.

"Not yet. Should be getting some compensation sooner or later, though. Keep watch for the postman today, alright?"

"Where will _you_ be?" Dean shrugged; he had nowhere in mind, but now that he seemed to have a viable option of leaving:

"Out." Sam snorted.

"Yeah, okay. Will this be at the Grand or Blackie's basement?" Both had bars and pretty people to warm beds and gambling that Dean could rig to win.

Dean shrugged. "Oh I don't know. Might just walk around some more. Leave you and Jess alone for once; is she getting sick of you yet?"

"She doesn't get sick of anything."

"Not even the weather?" Sam's mouth curled up a teeny bit, Dean turned his head in time to catch its short-lived placement on his lips. They crossed a street and were halfway home by the time either spoke up again.

"I like him," Sam said, considering the periwinkle sky that had swallowed up Brooklyn within the last few weeks. "He seems to like you, too."

"Too?" Dean echoed.

"You've just been mentioning him a lot."

"I've been mentioning the _shop_ a _bit_, Sam, don't get excited. I never meant to go back there after the first time."

"Why? He fixed up your clothes fine."

"It wasn't the clothes I was worrying about."

Sam nudged him as they stopped at another corner; a car rolled by. An Auburn Speedster, the same pale shade of the walk. Dean watched it bump along, two happy people inside: He kind of liked the things – the cars; rumbling beasts that were years from being anything more delicate and noble than the stuff they put in canning factories, but he liked them all the same; for being rough and wild in a place that had chopped down the haunting woods and exiled the medieval magic a long, long time ago. Sam's breath ghosted over him; more words in his ear. "Dean Winchester _worries_?"

"When the urge strikes me," they both smiled. "No. It was something else. Something I don't think there's a word for." The air stank of gasoline, folding into their suits and sticking like cigar tar.

"I can ask Jess to give you her dictionary. Maybe you'll find something then." Dean shoved hard enough to make Sam's steps falter. "You're an ass today,"

"You're a bitch _every_ day, Sammy. The freaking Pope ought to come down, bless me as a saint for putting up with you for over two decades..." As he talked, Dean felt something cold and blue curl up inside him; more potent than just smoke.

xxxx

Dean came back on Saturday, alone and on the heels of twilight. He had bothered to take a train most of the way across the distance, and when he came out again, it was snowing: Big fluffy drops of white, hanging in the air for a lazy long while before falling and melting into the black tar or white asphalt. There was a pretty good chance that this was the last snow of the winter – Dean felt pretty happy about that, letting half dreams of Augustine weather and golden bodies laid out on the hot sand by the Ocean keep him hot as he tramped down the street. As he looked around, most of the little businesses in the district were closing, or already dark. He squinted, imagining all the family squished around a four-person dinner table in the flats up above their stores: The grandparents, the parents; three children and a few aunts and cousins for good measure. There was the family running the bakery on the corner that couldn't afford bread, and a furniture shop up on seventy-fifth whose family hardly had two beds to their name. It was a special brand of misery that didn't make Dean weep so much as bark out a laugh and propose a toast to Lady Liberty and all the dreams she had conned out of Her people – Her Schmucks. Dean and Sam ran scams and rigged games and smuggled whatever someone else had stolen – but America, ah, America! That word by itself had lied to more people than any Winchester could manage in a lifetime.

At some point Dean began to wonder if Castiel's shop was even open by now. Brighton 4 Court was all dark; no street lights on the particular strip of road.

But as he drew nearer, he saw the golden, ethereal glow coming through the cheap venetian blinds all of the sudden, illuminating the falling snow in a picturesque way; he couldn't even see the paint chips.

He hadn't noticed the light before.

"Huh," Dean said quietly. He might have even smiled a little.

The door swung open and Castiel was in his usual spot, in his white collared shirt and tired look. "You didn't come with your brother?" he asked.

"Good evening to you, too, Novak." Dean said, sauntering up to him, one hand stuck unconsciously in his jacket. Castiel eyed the arm for a moment. Dean noticed, letting his hand slide out and rest on his side. There was no revolver hiding there, of course – not when he was off-duty at least. He couldn't even feel the guns on his side, the back of his trousers; the knife stashed under his heel – after so long, he only knew of their presence simply because they _belonged_ there.

"I apologize," Castiel said, walking around the countertop, leaning against the front side of it. It was the first time Dean had a full view of the guy from the front, just there, not moving. "It's just…" he continued. "You and your bother are family. You're close. Most families are." Then, after another moment, he touched the side of his neck and went, "And you may just call me Castiel if you wish, Dean."

Now that was something. Dean looked over at Castiel, body splayed and pliant; mouth tightly shut in the firm decision to not say anything else until Dean did. He hadn't been addressed as 'Dean' in a long, long time. Sam and Jess and some of his closer friends were stationary and didn't count to him. Not even all of the flames he had in the past had called him Dean outside of, say, a mattress. If Castiel slipped in a first name like that to somebody else, he might have gotten shoved against the very counter he was resting against; throttled some and reprimanded for being so disrespectful. Dean entertained the idea, but didn't move an inch; couldn't even raise a hand.

There had been a time when being called 'Mr. Winchester' made him half sick to his stomach. Mr. Winchester was his _Father_ – that excuse didn't really hold much water any more, though, and he had all forgotten about the reaction he used to have. He should have been offended at least, he figured. Thinking that some underclass Russian man could talk to him as if they were _friends_.

He should have.

And even if he wanted to muster up a speech about the man being insolent to his superiors, well, Dean didn't know how old Castiel was, but he had a feeling that it was at least a few years more than him; the idea seemed silly. So now all that was left was curiosity; why now did Castiel call him _Dean_?

"Its fine," Dean said warily, trying to gauge the man's reaction.

Funny, how Castiel smiled; still with tight dry lips and a bobbing throat. But his eyes were bright, betraying the cool aloofness that he might have been aiming for. There was something else there –there was always something else there; hidden away behind the sky in the other man's face.

"Would you like the suits?" he asked finally. He looked more energetic than Dean had ever seen him, as he straightened up and wandered back behind the desk.

"Well I didn't exactly come here for a candlelit dinner, if that's what you're wondering."

"Shame. Maybe next time." Castiel said it like he was serious.

"Maybe next time," Dean replied, watching the other man go into the back room. He drummed his fingers again, thinking, thinking, thinking. Manners were the worst, really. The codes of conduct that no one ever bothered to write down; it was getting looser all the time, thank god, but he was never really that good at the analytical fare. If someone wanted something, just _say_ it, damn it.

Dean's fingers stopped abruptly.

Maybe Castiel hadn't been joking at all.

Maybe he was… he was _like_ _that_.

Dean's smile showed teeth. A dandy, huh? Now _that_ was interesting.

Dean, only to himself at the right moment, could admit to kind-of being kind-of a sheik. Of course he liked women; you had to like women. And if he had to choose one over the other, well, he knew which to pick. But as far as he was concerned, he didn't _have_ to choose. And better yet, men were _so_ _easy_.

If Dean could think of one good thing about Prohibition, it was that it made the saying 'desperate times call for desperate measures' a whole lot more applicable. He had noticed it right once he and Sam had moved back into the city: Those clubs; the hole in the wall places that not even the neighbors knew about. Figured that he had to spend some time in a Pansy Club for his job; meeting discreetly and whatnot. And amoung the damp setting and dark lights and rough looking young men, all strong and long-limbed and healthy; almost all from the poorer districts with hardly a jacket on any of them, it had been… sinfully easy to get attracted. And soon Dean had found himself molding in with the other adolescents – he took a fair amount to bed, from then to now – because Girls were easy to be with; you could flirt and meet with and talk to them all day, but if you were Catholic – and every girl Dean had ever bothered asking was Catholic – you had mountains of inhibitions. Or parents who would find out. So he could get kisses and a necking session in the dark theatre rooms, but hardly any woman would actually go to bed with him. And those who did were expensive and a little too manipulative to stick around for very long. So when he felt like it, he found a Pansy Club and went for it. No one knew, of course, and it didn't really matter to him: They were all just nameless, pretty faces – and vice versa, he was sure. It didn't mean anything.

And now there was this Russian man, Castiel; pale and taut and brilliant looking – who could say a few decent words on occasion, to boot. And he wanted to… and he thought…? Dean started tapping his fingers again as he saw the tailor's figure move back into eyesight, carrying the clothes in a bag.

He set them on the counter, and Dean let himself look; up at the wisps of hair a smidge too long; dark and feathery and easy to muss up; the line of his lips and the crease of his throat; the way his fingers curled and palms cupped. Half a dozen dirty thoughts waltzed through Dean's head and he smiled again; lazy and impish.

Castiel saw. He turned back to stoic, standing straight again.

"Is that all?" Castiel said, blinking a few times. He handed up the bag.

"For now," Dean clasped the bag's handles, making sure his fingers were on top of Castiel's. He smiled again; the other looked almost disbelievingly at the display, as if shocked. "But I'm sure I'll be back if I need something else done."

"Is that a promise?" Castiel said, slowly letting go. His eyes rested on Dean's fingers before peering up at the other's face from under dark lashes.

"As close as I can get to one of those, yeah. I couldn't leave someone like you waiting forever."

Castiel nodded at this. His eyes were vividly intense, still. Always. "Alright then," he said. "Have a good night, Dean."

The abruptness was something Dean was unaccustomed for. "Good night, Castiel." They parted, and soon Dean was walking through the dark winds and puffs of snow. He popped his collar up and hunched his shoulders, in a pensive mood. He had been rather naïve to believe he could get to Castiel in one night of vague promises and long looks spanning not five minutes. No, Castiel was a few degrees higher than just some random boy in a dark room; he had a name, a face, something of a soul tied to him. It looked like they would be subjected to a few more visits and talks; some wooing on Dean's part, perhaps. He found himself not minding that much – this was far more like an experience with a girl than any other man Dean had come across, if only because of the little extra effort needed. But if it worked out, in a few weeks time, he would have a very, very nice end to justify the means.

**xxxx**

**A/N: Just some historical notes: In America, especially New York City and especially Manhattan, the 1920s brought an increase in tolerance amoung other races and homosexuals. 'Pansy Clubs' were set up as explicitly gay bars, where it wasn't unlikely to find male prostitutes or variations thereof. The cultural change had such an impact that songs alluding to homosexuals were even played on public radio. This did not mean that men and women were coming out, but rather they had a place to go: Anyone looking for a same-sex hookup would have to take into account a plethora of signs and codes to get anywhere in public life. Basically, if Dean was never partially interested in men, he would have missed any signal entirely, and Castiel would have moved on. Castiel also lives on Brighton 7th Street.**


	4. Some Casual Conversation

It sort of became a habit for Dean, after that. Visiting Castiel with poorly refined pretenses: Half the time he managed to waltz in with a muddy shirt or a torn belt loop or a pair of pants that needed to be taken in. At some point, where any outfit Dean had previously only worn around the apartment – tattered undershirts and baggy vests – were now fit enough to be in his regular rotation, and his typical wardrobe had by extension expanded by about half, and he was seriously considering rifling through Sam and Jess's things just so he could have more stuff to bring in, Castiel lightly smiled at him and said: "You don't have to come here because you want something from me, Dean."

He blinked. "What?" It was April now; spring. But only in the technical sense.

"I mean, you don't have to show up because you have to give me work to do."

"Are you trying to slack on your job, Castiel?" But Castiel kept on smiling.

"No, I'm just inviting you to stay here and talk to me. Just because. What you're doing seems closer like dealing with a whore. Sorry. Prostitute." He seemed almost embarrassed that common vulgarity slipped into his words; as if Dean would have been offended by it. The man had a more formal tone than he did, for Christ's sake. It was… something; Dean didn't really have the ability to describe it.

"Hey, those girls work hard, I can give you that much. Fine then." Dean moved in a bit closer to the other, pressing his legs up against the counter. "How has it been in your neck of the woods, Castiel? What have you done this week?"

"It's Monday, Dean."

Dean waited patiently.

"Well," Castiel glanced up. "I went to church yesterday."

"I don't remember yesterday," Dean muttered. "I was sleeping, I think."

"You don't go to church?"

"That's Sammy's thing; he's the good Catholic kid. Once I got confirmed I got out of that place as fast as I could. Saved me a lot of trouble. And sleep." Castiel seemed unimpressed. "You, uh, you're a…"

"Orthodox."

"Huh. How's that?"

"Probably not that much different than being a Catholic. Or a Protestant. Or Quaker or Jewish – there's only one God, after all." He leaned his face closer to Dean, who soaked up the close contact, the details of Castiel's face and his warmth and his scent. "But don't tell anyone I said that."

"Don't worry; I'm not interested in putting you down for heresy." Castiel raised his brows and let out a one note laugh at that. There wasn't much humor in it; irony, maybe.

"But doesn't your brother get upset? Your family?"

"Sam's the only family left that matters," Dean noted, solemn-faced. Castiel looked at him with another impenetrable stare; his irises looked like blown glass; marbles – the best kind, that kids kept in tin boxes under their beds and only took out when no one was around to see. Dean pulled up immediately; what must have been shock in Castiel's face at the idea of family only consisting of two people. He carried on. "And he doesn't mind enough to drag me."

Castiel made his voice drop low, so it wasn't just scratching gravel, it was digging tunnels underground. "So you do not believe in God?" Dean shrugged.

"I… _believe_," he inwardly winced at the doubt in his words. "I just don't think He's as big a deal as everyone thinks."

"Has something happened to you that would make you say that?" The tables turned quickly. Just like that, and Dean felt a rush of hot air flash through him. "The people I know that don't – well, lack of faith comes from plenty of things." He was trying so hard not to seem judgmental.

Dean looked off to the side. "If all it takes is a few bumps in the road; what are you doing on the pews every week, huh?" he closed his eyes and felt his lashes rub against his cheek. He kind of wanted to run off, but instead he went on; "Let's talk 'bout something not too serious today, man. It's only Monday after all – wouldn't do much good to get all worked up over it. Get shot next time I'm out on a job. And you… pricking your finger or whatever it is tailors do when they can't think straight." He looked back and Castiel's face was calmer – bemused even, with Dean's words.

"I'm sure you would make it out alive."

Dean smiled at the praise. "Of course I would. But the moaning I'd get from Sam. And you'd have more work from me anyway." His bottom lip jutted out in consideration. "What _does_ happen when tailors stop focusing on their work? I never talked to one before you."

Completely straight-faced Castiel replied: "We tend to get our shirt sleeves stuck in the machines and lose a portion of our limbs. Thumbs, usually. Or the small ones at the end."

"Pinkies, then."

"Yes." He let the digit in question twitch and he cast a curious glance over it. "And then there might be some blood libel, but I believe that's just a cultural aspect." Dean looked worried for a moment. "That was a joke, Dean. I can joke."

"It was the _tone_, man. You could be a sight at a poker game. You've ever been to one?"

"…Not in civilized company."

"What, you bring out a deck to all the woodland creatures or something?" Castiel didn't respond to that, and looked away, much like Dean had previously; uncomfortable. Dean furrowed his eyebrows and tried to think of something to say to get an answer when the door opened and two women strolled in. "Cousins?" Dean asked.

"Customers." Castiel said, eyes forward now at the newcomers.

Dean straightened. The urge to run came back and this time Castiel didn't seem all that eager to reel him back in. "I'll come back later, then."

"Goodbye, Dean."

Dean felt something unnervingly similar to regret – but less potent than normal, for once – sting in his throat as he walked home. It wasn't until the halfway point that he remembered he hadn't formally bid Castiel a proper goodbye, as per usual.

He contemplated turning back around the entire rest of the way home.

**xxxx**

"Castiel,"

"Yes?"

"How did you know about Romano, and the money?" And roughly every other exploit he had done from the first time he had come into Castiel's shop, from then until now?

Castiel seemed to be thinking the same thing. "And the fire, robberies and murders of the Five Point gang members?"

"Well that, everyone in the neighborhood knows about _that_."

"One of their leaders was sent to jail recently, correct?"

"For a year. He didn't have a kid or an heir or anything and it's becoming a free-for-all down in the Sixth Ward. We – well, Lucifer's group – "

"Was nipping it in the bud?"

"That's a good way to put it. It looks like a war out there. It's awful." Dean was leaning against the counter, staring out at the rain outside, bearing down in dark sheets. He heard a word that sounded like 'shit' in Castiel's native language, followed by a light clatter of metal.

Dean turned his head around. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. Lost concentration, I suppose," Castiel grumbled, picking up a pair of thin scissors, gold leaf on the end carved to look like a bird's feathered profile. Their eyes met, as if it was a subconscious thing at this point. "A token from home," Castiel said, reaching out and letting Dean take them. They fit just barely in his palm, "It's not real gold of course. Colored nickel, I think. It wouldn't have made it if it was gold." Dean let them go back to Castiel, fingers touching because he could.

"Do you miss Mother Russia at all?" Dean asked, feeling dark and sardonic with the terrible weather outside; spring his ass. Castiel shrugged, leaning back down to an extensively long jacket that had an owner who wanted all of the buttons switched to white. Sure, why not. When Dean had shown up, Castiel immediately moved his work and a stool up towards the table.

"I suppose. It wasn't easy to learn English and American customs, nor to leave friends and family behind."

"You speak English pretty good for someone just off the boat, Cas."

"You make it sound like I arrived last week. I've been in the city longer than you." And it was true, despite the accent, and the way that Castiel would mumble around certain words he was uncertain about, trying to break out of the informal slurs of Russian and American voices that he probably used otherwise, and slipping upwards, into something a little more formal with Dean.

"I grew up here." Dean said, in an attempt to win a losing battle. "Till I was five." He neglected to mention that he had been born out in a place full of corn fields, only moving to the East after his Mother was killed and his Dad couldn't seem to bear staying at one place anymore; as if his soul went along with his wife, and he had spent the rest of his life trying to track it down, going up and down the most colonized parts of America, stretching down South and West before finally getting offed in Jersey. Him and Sam moving up to Brooklyn seemed almost fitting, besides the extended family that had never moved farther than Ellis Island, like their parents had – the animosity between the states was a hollow comfort; as if the rest of New York sympathized with them.

Castiel clucked his tongue and plucked an ivory button from a pile on his left. "Well I read a bit. I still do. The newspaper especially, and after a few years I started to notice crime patterns."

"Crimes aren't tailoring, Cas. It's not that easy – "

"Sure it is. I could see where the gangs placed themselves in the City and what sort of… trade, you might say, they got involved in." He dropped another old black button into a small dish on his right, probably to be used later. "Drug smugglings, gambling, bar and club fundings, etcetera."

"Uh-_huh_, and how did you know about Sam and me?"

"Well, once and a while they get the names out." Castiel said.

"We have fake names. Papers too."

"I've seen your face, though. And there are always rumors, even up here." He nodded outside. "I'll smoke out against the side of the building, out there. You'd be surprised, how many people hold little meetings 'round here. Usually Russians and Italians, of course. Neither can really go farther either way without people talking."

"Fat lot of good that does, if _you're_ saying stuff." Castiel shrugged. "No one ever catch you spying?"

"I'm not spying, I'm smoking. They're the ones not being careful enough."

Dean grunted. "So, you were able to guess what sort of crimes me and Sam have done's what you're saying."

"It's not a perfect system, but yes. I only knew of Romano – a hundred percent, at least – because _everyone_ knew about Romano."

"And the smuggling?"

"I could only think of two people working under Lucifer that could handle that big a project and walk away without making any shallow graves." At that Dean paused, and glanced over his shoulder again. Castiel was poking a piece of black thread through the eye of a needle, the tips of his fingers a pressurized white color; everything else around it puckered and pink. He flicked his gaze up to Dean once he could feed more thread through, running his fingers across the strand like an instrument's string he was setting to play.

No music came, but his voice, again. Rumbling down from somewhere Dean couldn't reach. "You always distance yourself from them. Lucifer and his… what'd you call them? Demons. Demonics…"

"Well with a name like that," Dean's gag turned tail and ran the moment it made contact with the open air and Castiel's deadpan look. "Yeah." He mumbled, after a moment. "Yeah I do. I told you, Cas – me and Sam are family. We have cousins and uncles and half of the district related to us. Hell, I'd be surprised if some girl I've dated hasn't shared a bit of blood way down the line. But there's only one person that I'm gonna take a bullet for – or _count_ as family, and it ain't any of Lucy's minions. His boys are tougher than nails, but they're barbaric, too. 'Worse than the Russians', they say." Dean paused at the saying he let slip. "Well, that's what _other_ people say, at least.

"They kill for the fun of it. Like to hear their targets scream – that's what one of the guys told me, over beers once. No jokin' at all. The look someone gets when they're about to die, you know? Have you seen it?" Dean cast his gaze to Castiel, but he had his face angled down, eyes shadowed by hair falling out of place. Dean sighed, turning back around and leaning his back into the desk again, putting his hands in his pockets so he wouldn't be tempted to reach out and touch the other's face; see what was going on in those pretty blue eyes of his. Maybe he had always been a sucker for baby blues – though Cas' – _Castiel's_ - were worlds away from any beach blonde out of a magazine picture; and miles away from California's sand. His eyes were too dark, anyway. Dangerous and stormy, and not icy like the harder women he'd met in the city, who kind of matched the hard-boiled tone of New York, at least in his mind. "They look like dead cattle," he said quietly, thinking of ice and blood and gunpowder. "That is one of the worst things you could see. And these bastards _like_ it? One thing about them: Don't stay long. Too crazy; not careful enough. Give 'em a Tommy and they think that they're a step away from becoming the next Devil of Brooklyn." A nice little name for his boss; he'd always been good at nicknames, Dean figured; _Cas…_ "It's a fifthly business, working with Lucifer. There's always an uprising being planned, someone trying to split the gang up, and Lucifer always kills the guy himself. It helps make an impression, and things get calm for a bit before a new wave of demonic henchmen roll in as replacement after the bloodbath, and the whole thing starts up again. It's like he doesn't care if his employees live, die, or if he cuts the traitor's throat himself. And they don't care about anything. No respect for nothing."

"But not you, though."

"Or Sam." Dean added.

"Or Sam."

Castiel looked at Dean, and Dean stared out the wetted windows; the rain continued to fall in a removed, far-off way.

"Why?" Castiel said, and there were a lot of things he could have been asking about, and Dean didn't feel like answering any of them. He closed his eyes on the misty, wet streets outside, thinking that it was too much for too little – visiting Castiel and everything.

He had been thinking that for a while, actually.

One day he might even be pressed to stop and ask himself why he bothered – another 'why' he never really wanted to get around to.

"Keeps the landlord happy," Dean said sullenly, dragging his words out. His arms were back on the table, hands stretched out on the edge. "And if it wasn't us doing it, it'd be someone else, and you know it."

"I wasn't trying to imply – "

"Yeah you were." Castiel shut up. "And like there's any way to make an honest living and be happy at the same time. Anyone who does that is just lying to themselves. I don't know if I'm happy, but Sam and Jess seem fine, and none of us are starving or anything like that, so I figure…" he was rambling, sounding stupid and drunk and he couldn't seem to spit out any semblances of truth, or any half lies of 'I don't know' and –

Castiel's palm was warm on his knuckles, fingers open and spread on top of his in a reassuring wave of – something. Dean hardly got touched by another person – he kind of loathed it, his brother pinning it down to some mental scientific rubbish he didn't buy for a second. He just wanted his space. And as far as Castiel was concerned, _he_ just wanted to instigate something, that was all.

But this, he twitched his hand and forced it to go lax. This was alright.

"Sorry about that," Castiel whispered, eyes down at his slowly progressing work when Dean turned his head back around to look. Dean wondered if he meant the line of questioning or the gesture.

"I don't mind." Dean said, despite himself. They stayed like that for another minute or two or ten, one pinpoint of contact; Dean staring and Castiel, who picked an awful moment to feel averse to staring back.

When he walked towards the door; Castiel's hand fell away like the shadow of a touch. Dean reached for his hat – looking lonely on the shiny coat rack."I'll be back in a few days," he promised vaguely, because his trips were never exactly planned anymore, and normally he wouldn't bother, but he figured Castiel would kick himself for half the week if he didn't offer some type of assurances that he hadn't scared Dean off. He wasn't _mad_, not really, it all just left a bad taste in his mouth; gave him more to think about than he usually tried to have.

Dean went into the cold storm, feeling soaked and sick on impact. He didn't glance back at the tailor, nor see the blissfully relieved look on the other's handsome face.

**xxxx**

**A/N: I enjoy skipping around in my narration, so both these scenes happened several weeks apart. And another little factoid; the Five Points Gang was a bit of a notorious, long-running Italian mob that existed in a Manhattan neighborhood formally known as Sixth Ward**.


	5. Bedside Manner

Dean waited a bit to return to the shop; a few days longer than normal. He tried not to worry that he had sunken into a routine with his visits. Of course, Dean's hesitant behavior had more to do with the dank, wet weather of the month versus any social anxieties he didn't have, _ever_– it appeared that New York would suffer another wet summer; so much for Augustine thoughts, then.

Plus a few more odd jobs, courtesy of the boss. Nothing high profile and glamorous, at any rate – he wondered if Castiel knew.

He stepped into the shop, curious to find out, but instead found another man at the front – shorter with a large forehead and hair like sand grit – sucking on a cigarette and watching a few men paint the shop's inside a pleasant color; warm and cozy like fireplace embers. But Dean didn't realize any other details more than the fact that for the first time, Dean didn't see Castiel where Castiel always was.

For a frightening moment he had thought the tailor had simply fled. Maybe he had _died_. Maybe one of the other families in the neighborhood had a beef with him and, _and_ –

"Can I help you?" said the man, through the mental panic that Dean was oddly enough having. (He didn't panic at gun fights or hit and runs or police raids but he panics when a man he faintly knows is not in his spot, figures.) Dean managed somehow to waltz up to the counter; _Castiel's counter_, as if nothing in the world was wrong.

"I'm here to speak with Castiel." He was unsure whether the first name basis would help or hinder.

"My brother is not working today. It's Saturday." Dean must have been pulling a face when the other man stared hard at him before saying _"Oh."_ As if the other had reached some astounding clarity. "Oh, _you_ must be _Dean_ Winchester."

Dean stiffened. "He's mentioned me?"

"All I know is that you're the reason my little brother has been taking my shifts. Waiting for you to show up, I presume." Dean blinked in response, wondering when the Hell _that_ started, and then, on second thought, how much sense that made. How many of these stores were _actually_ run by only one person all week? The late and random visits had been going on for a while, and this was the first time he had _not_ seen Castiel. The man that – well, friend was too generous, since they were both well aware of what the other was looking for. And why nothing had been initiated Dean wasn't quite sure - _and why he hadn't demanded it yet…?_

At any rate, Dean pressed on; "Is he in?"

"He's resting at the moment. Hay fever, I think, but it's better to waste a day or two now than a week and a funeral down the line."

"Pleasant." Dean muttered.

"Not all of us can afford the regular doctors," The other said it with a sort of accusation in his voice, but before Dean could bother to draw himself up and go, _'care to repeat that again?_' he was being gestured at. "He would probably want to see you. Come on, if you don't think your shoes will get too dirty or something."

He cautiously walked around the workbench, taking his time as the other man shouted a few words in Russian at the painters, probably the same thing most people shouted at their painters; _"I'll be back in a moment, don't run off or kill each other!"_ Or something along those lines. The hallway was black and not quite as dusty as he was expecting. A few paces in the man pointed up a narrow set of stairs and said, "Bedroom's on the first left," before continuing on again, even further down the corridor. Into the back room, Dean guessed, where all the real work got accomplished. Dean felt that odd sense of foreboding; the feeling of going somewhere he didn't quite belong. He thought he had shaken that off long ago, going below and beyond the reaches of common law and, hell, _morals_ on a regular basis – but a skeleton of the trepidation remained, surfacing up from a part of his brain where he was still a kid – when he still had a shadowed figure to cling behind.

_Moreover_, it was just common decency, and the idea of going up to Castiel's bedroom, led by his _brother_ of all things, seemed embarrassing in some way. But then again, maybe this was the chance that the both of them had been waiting for. It made sense, after all: With another person occupied with watching the painters, and an entire flat above quite possibly unguarded…

Dean felt the back of his neck heat up – not for shame or nervousness, but a thrill curling deep down in his belly.

Except when he actually knocked on the door and a redheaded woman answered – beautiful, and more preferable than Castiel on principal, until he caught sight of the dozing baby in her arms and a tiny ring on her finger. He tried not to look crestfallen. "Are you Dean Winchester?" she asked in a hushed tone, like it was a secret he was there, and it kind of was. Even Sam only had a vague notion of where he was going, and if he deduced the tailor shop, it wasn't for Castiel.

"Yes," he whispered back, eyeing the child. Another thing about men; they didn't give you an extra mouth to feed. "A man downstairs said –"

"Gabriel. My husband, Castiel's brother-in-law." She wriggled a hand out from under the child. "I'm Anna, his sister." Dean took the offered hand in a light shake. "This is Misha." She adjusted him again, ruffling her blouse.

"Cute kid," Dean said, smiling. He didn't really mean it – it was just something you _said_, of course. But the kid _did_ have a head of dark hair, making Castiel's image pop back into his head.

Anna smiled, looking sweet and lovely in her ankle-length blue dress, and if the last thought he had before she dismissed him was something along the lines of what _exact_ shade of blue Castiel's eyes possessed, well, he didn't dwell on it much.

The door to Castiel's room opened in a creaky, yawning way, and Dean wasn't sure what he was expecting to find. From the quick glimpse around, the place was snug, but livable. Their kitchen had tiles and clean cabinets and yes, a four-person kitchen table in the middle, covered with a checkered table cloth, of all things. Castiel's room only had one cot – well, no, it was a few steps better than that, actually; a real mattress with fitting sheets. There was an antique desk stacked with a few books by the window, along with an armchair nearby. The shades were drawn; the wardrobe was partially open and not empty, and everything looked clean and humble but _nice_, and that kind of caught Dean off guard. He expected others. A grandma and a dozen kids running about and cots stuffed into the crevices of the room, meant to be pulled out at night after work was done. He expected cheap chairs split and half broken and scratchy sheets and no tables at all. Not this. Not normality.

Castiel, wrapped up in thick blankets, let out a breathy sigh, as if frustrated with sleep. He turned around and settled in deeper for a moment as Dean shut the door.

He crept up to the other man, trying to see if the relaxed state he was in was merely a ruse.

His hair was mussed; an easy job, just like Dean figured, falling over his brows like an ink stain. This was what sleep looked like, no doubt. Dean let out a sigh of his own – disappointment – and patted Castiel on the cheek, waiting for the other to wake up.

He grunted, tossed, and opened his eyes. Castiel smiled freely, as if sharing a moment with a lover or a wife. "You're not dreaming," Dean said, because that was almost positively the reason for the other's expression.

In an instant, Castiel's face became pinched, drawn into himself, and he sat up quickly, in a panic. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and Dean let himself stare, trying not to feel guilty about it – as if he was taking advantage of a situation – because he wasn't, not necessarily, just making the most of an unfortunate one.

The pale planes of the tailor's chest just weren't as interesting as his eyes, Dean reflected, and that was where he focused on after all. "You weren't in today."

Castiel moved slow, trying to sound out a few words, face hazy with a sleepy, sickly fog. "…I wasn't."

"Your brother-in-law sent me up here. And your sister, too." He smiled. "A Novak family reunion; just add a few more kids and old folks, you know what I mean? Where's the rest of 'em, anyway?" Castiel looked downright lost for the longest time, like Dean had started speaking in fluent Italian – or tongues. Looking down, he stared hard at the sheets pooled around him, little off-white wrinkles settling against his skin. Dean spoke up again: "What is it?"

"It's just them." Castiel said sullenly. Dean felt his ears twitch, as if he was trying to make sure he heard right the first time around.

"Oh." Dean said, tasting an echo. He bit down on an apology.

Obviously there used to be more. More friends; brothers, aunts and parents. The similarity between them was kind of dizzying, and Dean wondered why Castiel hadn't let that little fact slip before – he now felt almost selfish with the urge to know more about the other's life, to see if any other points of empathy would come up.

Castiel breathed in a little, coughed some, too, and let his eyes rove over the room. "You can sit, if you want." Dean was halfway to sitting slightly lower on the mattress before figuring that Castiel meant the armchair a few feet away, but rising again in some form of a physical stutter would have just been _embarrassing_, so he plopped down where he was.

"So, when were you going to tell me you were taking extra shifts?"

Castiel had the audacity to look bashful, smiling at nothing in particular. "I wasn't. Shop work isn't too hard and, well, I had no idea when to expect you."

"You could've said something."

"I didn't think you'd bother." Castiel was right, he probably wouldn't. But now that he knew – well, too little, too late, that was how it usually worked for him.

"Well, you can quit the extra shifts; I'll just stick to when you're supposed to be working. My job isn't as regular as yours, anyways." The skin around Castiel's eyes crinkled in an unshed sign of pleasure.

"Alright then." He didn't seem bothered to add anything else to their conversation, leaving Dean feeling a little panicked at the silence. There was just a minute amount of awkwardness to it, but it was the principle of the thing; Dean didn't like silence, the waiting for someone else to say something, _do_ something.

He looked around the room again, searching for inspiration.

"These the books you were talking about?" Dean hopped up and went towards the desk, leaning down to get a glimpse at the titles: _Flappers and Philosophers_, _The Metamorphosis_, The Bible – that was so predictable that Dean couldn't even be bothered to register it – and a few little paperbacks that looked like they could have been picked up on a news rack, any time from last week to a decade ago. Those were the only novels he could clearly make out in the stack. Everything else strongly resembled philosophy. "No Hemingway?" he said, thumbing through the top book. It was English halfway through, before doing a direct translation to Russian in the back.

Behind him, Castiel shifted. "Not a fan of the war, I'm afraid."

Dean smirked, turning back to him. "Figured that. No one's a fan of the War. I can't even remember it; I spent all my time back then just wondering…" his face fell, and he looked around, half bewildered. "Just wondering when Dad was gonna come back.

"I mean he did, of course, just two years after. They say war changes people but I figured he'd seen enough for any war; he would shuck it off eventually, right? …Sorry, what am I doing, bothering you when you're feeling under the weather and all,"

"It's just a cold, I'll be fine." Dean nodded and looked back at the book; _On Love_ it read. Dean brandished the cover and Castiel pretended to look embarrassed.

"I'm a bit of a romantic," he admitted. "It's better than any of that serious stuff they have out there."

"Says the man with ten pounds of thinking material on his table." Dean put the book down and sat back down on the bed, Castiel keeping eye contact by propping himself up on his forearms.

"All those war stories about gritty men with wives and lovers and guns that they give names to; it's all very pretty and patriotic and noble. That's what we'll think when we go on to have more wars. We'll forget everything except how angry we're getting at the moment, right?" he shrugged, as if to assure that his words weren't meant to be dangerous. "It's all fantasy, really – war is just your entire world gone to Hell – no, worse than that."

"Shit." Dean offered.

"Sure. Fine, that works. Anyway, I don't want to hear about American heroes and German bastards and Russian cowards or anything else. And as for failed American Dreams… I don't know, it's there; why bother waste time reading about fake suffering when you can be lending others a hand?"

Dean hummed at that, and Castiel suddenly lurched forward and hacked into the blankets, shoulders rattling. Dean moved back, afraid Castiel would pull back and be wiping blood off the sheets, or he would just collapse in a pile of limbs or something like that. To busy his hands, he found a pitcher sitting on the window sill and filled it with a half drained glass by Castiel's bed, giving it to him when the other's attack stopped.

No blood. No sudden death. "It's gotten better, if you can believe it," Castiel supplied, taking the gently offered glass and downing the whole thing, his throat throbbing with the quick effort; slick with the slight sheen of sweat. "Hardly do that anymore." He rubbed his eyes.

"I guess I'll take my leave then," Dean said, filling the water glass one more time before putting it back, listening to the rattle and rustle of the sick man's breathing and covers pulled over his body. "Don't die on me, you hear?"

Castiel's eyes were closed. "I don't plan on it," he replied, settling in.

"Yeah?" Dean laid a hand on the man's forehead, staring down. "You promise?"

"As much as one can promise such things," Castiel said, letting his lips twinge into a smile.

He could kiss him then, Dean thought, without any problem at all. He could just lean down, cough be damned.

It wouldn't take much at all.

"Bye, Cas."

"Goodbye, Dean."

He shut the door on his way out. Angrily he kicked at the dirt in the streets.

He wasn't there to romanticize some half-way Russian guy for a one night stand. Had it gotten that bad? Had he distracted himself so fully that he couldn't even remember what he was there to do in the first place? Dean's mind didn't dwell on the possibility that Castiel was searching for more out of him – why should anyone expect more than face value with _him_? The tailor wasn't a fool; he wasn't some dumb corn-fed farm girl or half illiterate boy in the street – he certainly knew better than to be getting his standards up around someone like Dean.

And he couldn't keep clinging on to this, Dean figured. This was a yes or no thing. A binary choice. Castiel was a self-proclaimed romantic, but even _he_ knew how these things played out now, didn't he? He was older, and with a face like that... no way Dean was the first to walk into his life.

He paused at that, halfway down the street, before deciding it was better if he didn't reside on Castiel's escapades; wouldn't do either of them any good.

A few more streets went by before Dean was able to go through his views and nod to himself, deciding that the next time he saw Castiel, well and whole again, he would _have_ to make him choose.

**xxxx**

**A/N: The books mentioned are popular novels at the time, the Bible – which has been popular for like five-hundred years, and **_**On Love**_**, a short philosophy about how love 'crystallizes' and different forms of romance, written by some French dude in the 1800s. **


	6. Uncomfortable Words

His resolve, Dean found, crumbled a bit on impact the next time he laid eyes on Castiel, one Thursday away from the last time he had ventured over. He didn't have the chance to make it into the store, instead finding the other bundled in a suit jacket and trench coat, leaning against the brick of his building with the stub of a cigarette rolling between his fingers, smoke pooling out of his mouth as he aimed dead eyes to the opposite wall. It felt incredibly personal, despite the public setting – as if he wasn't supposed to see Castiel like this, outside of the post he had given himself in the world. But then, he shouldn't have gone into his bedroom, introduced himself to his very small family or anything else that implied what their relationship was – what it was trying to be and failing, rather, much to Dean's chagrin.

And there was something else, too: He had seen Castiel, witnessed the absence of crushing misery that permeated the lives of most of his kind. Out of all the things he expected to find in the intimate settings of Castiel's home, normalcy was the thing that threw him off.

Dean paused for a moment, watching Castiel smoke in a daze, mouth pink and dry. Finally he reached into his own jacket, nails tapping on the metal cigarette case before pulling out a white stick and walking over.

"Feeling better, I see. Got a light?" he asked, feeling the rough pressure of the wall against his back. Castiel turned his way, surprised and successfully jolted out of his reverie. He glanced down his nose and produced a little match box out of the trench coat's folds. He slipped a match out and struck it, the hiss of sulfur being the only sound in the street at all.

Dean leaned over, watching the faint light stretch and flicker over Castiel's cupped palms.

"I am. Feeling well, that is. Just needed a rest."

"Good thing."

"It was probably the weather, at any rate. The baby had it too, a while before." Castiel hummed, then went; "I was just thinking about you," Dean looked up and saw the orange glow play against the creases in the man's face; the stubble at his jaw. They straightened again, and daylight came rushing back to him. Dean watched Castiel toss the burnt out match on the pavement and crush it with the tip of his shoe, into the grit.

"Really?" Dean said, leaning forward a bit. "What about?"

"Oh, just wondering when you would come back to me, and speak of the devil, you appeared."

"A bit forward, even for you, Cas." Dean joked, but the truth was that he had been hoping for more of a double entendre – innuendo and a low voice – not a declaration of genuine fondness.

"I missed you – the little discussions we have." Dean mustered together enough strength to push himself from the wall and against the other man, smoke trailing his movements.

"Are you sure that isn't all of me you've missed? I can give you something better than just discussions."

Castiel squinted at Dean's tightly drawn, insisting face before he relaxed again. Solemn with comprehension.

"I like our talks anyway," he said after a moment, ignoring how the toes of Dean's shoes were touching his. "Don't you?"

They were some of the more pleasant parts of the week for Dean, but the truth wasn't going to help him here: "I like a lot of things."

Castiel smiled and Dean tried to hold on to the black mood surrounding him. "Do you like parks then? I have a while before Gabriel ends his shift. There's one a few blocks away from here; not far."

"You want me to go to the park. With you. Together."

"That was the idea, yes." Castiel flicked away his stub of a smoke and lazily strutted through the alley, onto the open street opposite Four Court. Dean found himself following into No Man's Land, if only so he could say;

"What if someone _sees_ me?"

The tailor's shoulders bunched under his back as he shrugged.

"Then they see you. I doubt anyone you care about is around here – _I'm_ the one who has to talk to his neighbors; explain that you're a nasty client that needed to be taken away from Gabriel's shop." Castiel turned his head back so Dean could get an eyeful of his face; now transformed from a bemused smile to a vividly bitter one, reminding him of a tangerine rind, odd enough – it made Dean's mouth wet.

Castiel wasn't lying, at least. The park wasn't far.

**xxxx**

Dean trailed a couple dozen paces behind Castiel for the half mile it took to get to Grady playground, right on the cusp of Sheepshead Bay. Spring had arrived the way it usually did; babbling and strewing flowers. Dean hated spring; the liveliness of it, so soon after he had begun to bear the brunt of winter's cold torture. There was too much color; too bright and too soon. Summer was better, when the sun beat down the fragile crocuses and the daffodils sunk back into the earth. The grass started browning and only the orange wild lilies and tiny violets thrived as weeds. The world felt better that way – lived in and imperfect.

He tapped a handkerchief to his watering eyes – no hay fever in the summertime, either. At least he hadn't followed Castiel's example, becoming bed-ridden and all.

They settled on benches made of wood and black wrought iron, angled at the ends so that they sat inconspicuously close – a patch of grass between their separate seats. They faced a clearing surrounded by oaks and thistle bushes. The set up was a carbon copy of any of the parks Dean had near his home: Dean imagined the mothers, pastel skirts and baby carriages arranged in a circle as they gossiped and watched the older children run about with one eye focused. But school wasn't out yet, and the early afternoon created a hazy, deadened atmosphere around them.

"So," Dean said in an authorative, hurry-it-along tone. It fell flat once he realized he had nothing to say. He stared out at the bright new grass instead. Birds chirped in the distance, though he couldn't pinpoint the sound.

"It's pleasurable out." One of the first uses of odd synonyms that popped out of Castiel. Dean snorted, making to get up.

"I don't have time for this," he said, moving – if the guy wanted to pansy around, they had a whole shop and apartment to walk circles in. Associating with Castiel in public – not behind the cover of a storefront, not behind a desk, and certainly not in the dark recesses of a bedroom – made him anxious.

"Dean," Castiel said. His smile fell. Now they both looked like stiffs. It wasn't the place. Dean let Castiel ease him back down, hand on his shoulder, an impersonal touch that left the skin hot under his suit. "I was hoping…" he trailed off, hands settling in his lap.

"Hoping what?"

Castiel turned, rubbing his neck. "When I… suggested something to you, on your fourth visit over – the one where you picked up you and your brother's suits… what were you looking for?"

"Looking for?" Dean echoed numbly, wondering if the pollen or the question was causing an ache to rattle behind his eyes, and then it hit him; practically a sucker punch of a revelation: The adoring looks, kind words; Castiel's sudden nervousness and the searchingly bothersome question of _why_ Castiel hadn't made good on his suggestions – it all made sense in one fell swoop, and Dean couldn't help but laugh. A cruel, twisted up sound trailed out of his mouth; raspy like the kind his boss gave out, and the thought made his face scrunch up, reserved again.

Castiel didn't want sex; a quick meet up – he wanted a God honest _relationship_ – love, even, or something like it.

"You can't be serious," Dean said. "You can't honestly expect-"

"Why not?" Castiel interrupted, indignant, unwilling for once to hear Dean's take on the matter. "There are others you take – plenty, I'm sure. Why not just trade many for one? It'd be better than going off with strangers – the ones you could get from the gutter as soon as a club anywhere else." He stared at Dean, hands still stone wedges, as if he had trained himself to never look away.

Dean blinked, scanning the edges of the park. "You don't know where I got them – you're not even sure if I do."

"I do, I do." He replied solemnly. "I know you, Dean Winchester. Not an especially significant amount, but I do. I know what you do in your job, and why you loathe it; your boss, the city; how your only family can be counted on one hand, and most of those are dead. You downright hate yourself sometimes; think undeservingly that you're the worst. You don't go to church because, as far as you know, God has stopped caring about you."

"Don't remember telling you all that," Dean supplied quietly. The sun heated his cheeks. He closed his lids against the glare, feeling his eyes prickle at the light. _Just the light._

"You didn't have to. It's written all over your face."

Dean didn't know what to say to that. He didn't know what to _do_, either, so he sat, slouched on the park bench, not looking at Castiel because he didn't think he could bear it just yet. He felt a bit torn open and broken, now. Too injured to walk away. Castiel didn't budge an inch, but at least his focus was out on the green fields, aimed away and oblivious to the man bleeding out to the right of him. Sitting back in his seat, they both silently observed as the park filled with children and mothers, playing and watching, respectively. Their forms remained as fixtures, shadows rising and falling with the sinking of the sun. By the end they were left feeling stiff and lethargic from sitting pensively through the thickness of late afternoon. Thinking, maybe, or trying _not_ to. Finally, once the park was nearly deserted again, Dean said, "You know what you're asking – I can't do that, Cas. I like you, actually, and that's bad enough, but I _can't_."

"It's easier to hide your sins in the dark." Castiel replied.

"I don't care about that."

"Neither do I." Dean finally risked a glance over at Castiel, only to find him looking out with a sheepish little smile on his cheeks. "I'm sure people like us won't become saints anytime soon, but it isn't wise to believe _everything_ you read." He caught Dean's eye and his expression seemed mischievously secretive; boyish and cute. Dean smirked back.

"It's more than that, though." Dean went on; he paused until he could muster up the will to stay serious. "Maybe, maybe if you weren't…" he gestured vaguely.

"If I wasn't?" Castiel sounded almost amused. "Well, your sort has carved out a more manageable place here than ours."

"Yeah." Dean agreed. "That's a good way to put it."

Castiel went back to focusing on the field. A man and a woman walked arm and arm together, down an imaginary path. They were too far away to hear them; neither of the far-off pair looked up. Once they disappeared back into the brush, Castiel let out a grunt; chuckle, maybe. "I imagine you must be embarrassed – if anyone you know saw us. You coming to my shop or otherwise."

Dean found himself muttering something like, "I don't hate it." He didn't. Castiel was definitely part of the small portion of his life that he looked forward to: Midnights in the summer, poker games with guys he could stand; screwing around with Sam like they were kids all over again – and now he had Castiel, and a diminutive brick store front to go to and say hello. He might have been fine with that, just that. "But you said – you _offered_," Dean huffed, feeling cheated. "It's your own damn fault." No mention that he said yes. Castiel didn't bother saying anything to that effect, either – they both kind of knew, anyway.

It was their own damn faults.

"It's getting late," Dean said. "Your brother and sister are going to get a warrant on you soon." He stood up.

Castiel followed the motion, his overcoat swept along the seat of the bench where they had both wasted so many hours of their time. And for what? "And your brother must be curious about where _you_ went to."

"I'm sure he'll just think I went somewhere."

"If he's a decent brother at all that won't stop him from worrying."

Dean nodded; true enough. And then: "I don't think I'm coming back… I mean, I shouldn't, at any rate."

"No?" Castiel asked, tilting his head, squinting at Dean's mouth, as if trying to figure out the words that had just come out of them.

"Well, why bother rubbing salt in the wounds right?" _Why bother reminding us what you can't have and I can't give?_

"It sounds like you've been asking yourself that sort of thing for a while now." Dean hadn't managed to start to move his feet, for all the talking he did on the subject of getting out of there. The trees rustled, bringing along spring scent and Castiel's particular brand of tobacco; strong and burning, as if it were an acid. He leaned in close – Castiel did, the smell of him getting stronger even after the breeze snuffed itself out – and even though they were out in the open Castiel's eyes wouldn't let him get out of the way of what was merely a train-wreck waiting to happen. "If you knew what you wanted, if you were _so_ _sure_… and that you weren't getting it here… Then why did you keep coming back?"

Dean was supposed to have an answer for that.

Or, well, maybe Castiel already knew the answer – it was a mystery to _him_. At any rate, Castiel leaned in closer, and kissed him, hand clasped around his arm.

It was hardly anything, in all honesty. Didn't even touch his mouth. Just a small touch of pink lips, grazing the stubble low on his cheek. If anyone saw them, it looked more like a friend bestowing the other with a secret; if anyone saw them, they'd both be able to explain themselves away, play it off as the innocent gesture it appeared to be.

To Dean, it felt like his insides had been set on fire.

All this time and he was now given something real and tangible, and he couldn't, _couldn't_ wrap his mind around the fact. Castiel pulled back and Dean tried not to stumble, pressing his left hand tight around where Castiel had gripped him, as if that, too, had left a tangible mark.

They stared. For another bit of time they watched each other, and if Castiel was trying yet again to communicate something to him, another answer lost in the depth of his eyes, he had no way to decipher it.

He took off running, a moment later.

Ages ago, Dean ran just like this; feeling tight and rolled up at the bottom of his lungs, nothing but air to propel him on. He looked like a lunatic then _and_ now as cars blared long note wails while he pitched himself in front of their paths. A few passersby swore at him, all in a blur. Ages ago he ran in the grass, by farms tinged in gold. Sometimes his brother was behind him, feeble and unsteady, trying to keep up. Other times his father was in front of him, telling him how every move he made was wrong – position of his arms and the way he took in breaths and the tempo of his feet, beating on the ground. But he kept on going anyway. Because there was a race to win or impression to garner.

But now he chased down nothing, in leather shoes that were meant to make all the right steps on linoleum – not to be carelessly smacked against white pavement in a foot race against oneself. And there was the beautiful ghost of a man behind him, and he couldn't _stop_, because just imagine how _silly_ he'd look to all these people he didn't know, if he just paused and turned around, headed back to the park?

There he went again; trying to impress the ones that didn't matter.

He collapsed at the North-west edge of Gravesend, staring down the lines of streets, trying to find the rose bushes and pointed roofs of Dyker Heights, another mile down. As a child, the middle-west had been his home, and a person could see one mile as easily as one foot. He and Sam would be out in the fields, temporary farm-hands during their father's assignments, or just plain old kids on the rarer days, and when either one of them got too restless he'd squint and point at a far-off silo or horse farm or house and go, "See that one, Sammy?" and off they went – two miles down the dusty road, panting, bent over at the end of their journey, sweat running down to erase the dirt on their bodies.

Now he looked and saw shades of gray and evil eyes staring up from unfamiliar faces. Figures the country boy would hate the big city – figures he'd think a place like California was better.

Castiel was in there somewhere, floating just beyond the reach of his memories and monologues, right where he couldn't see. But Dean was already halfway home and he had a family, too.

Colonial Road was snug inside Bay Ridge. They were on the third floor, room two. A black Ford was parked out in the front, shined and waxed so that Dean could see how dead he looked before he even hit home.

He opened the door, mouth like cotton after his escape – after he ran away. He needed water; well, he needed scotch first. Hell, he'd even take a seven percent solution – maybe the ringing would make his thoughts stop.

The kitchen was nearly as he left it; old wallpaper and cabinets, new icebox and shaky radiator. Sam was there, at the table, and after taking that fact in Dean could hear the thud of his pulse start up once more, and he took a step back.

It was his boss, Lucifer, that noticed his presence first. "There he is," he said. The line of Sam's back stiffened to mimic a ramrod of iron.

Lucifer's teeth were like spikes.

"See, what did I tell you Sammy? I knew he'd show up."

**A/N: Places like the streets or neighborhoods mentioned in this story are actual names of actual Brooklyn neighborhoods – yay! And a 'seven-percent solution' is a reference to liquid cocaine that, during the Prohibition years, was a rather popular drug to inject yourself with. More on that later.**


	7. A Deal with the Devil

His real name was Luciano Martenelli, but most people called him Lucifer, because most people honestly, reverently and truly believed that he was none other than Satan himself.

Dean wasn't so sure about that, but the Devil of Brooklyn was one of the most fitting titles he had ever come up with – that was why the entire legion of his demons, damn, the entire _city_ picked it up, too. Lucky enough Lucifer didn't seem to care – may have appreciated his new nickname, even, if he was capable of such things. It meant he and Sam still had tongues to laugh about it, at any rate.

But now Lucifer was sitting across from Dean and his brother. Plus two bodyguards; meaty, faceless goons in black suits, as usual – one of them was just finishing patting Dean down, pronouncing him clean with a smoke smudged voice after pulling out his two pistols, gesturing him to kick away his knife studded shoes. Dean was curious if the pair of men Lucifer tended to have trailing him during his business were the same ones, or just new people, shifting through.

He kind of wondered if Lucifer bothered to learn their names, or if they were permanent fixtures for him, maybe shifting into new forms, though always constant meatsuits for him. But it didn't matter.

The Devil was speaking.

"Bit paranoid, Winchester?" he said, eyes bright. The man had this certain _look_ – or rather, he _looked_ amused, sort of, just in the coldest way possible. Lucifer was not unlike a child who enjoyed setting ants on fire and dropping cats from windows. The only difference, however, was that he preferred to play with people.

Dean slowly sat down next to his brother, who was doing a pretty good job of imitating a statue. Lucifer's body guards floated back behind their boss like big dark ghosts, becoming just as relevant as the chairs, the table, the sink, et cetera.

"What are you doing here?" Dean snapped, leaning forward.

"You know me," he said in a playful tone – one that made Dean's skin itch all over. "I was just in the neighborhood and," he shrugged, thrumming his fingers on the banged up wood of the table. "Here I am. Sam was nice enough to invite me in – we were talking."

"Talking." Dean shot back, wishing for a way to reach out to his brother and calm him down. He was practically shaking, tremors under his skin like he came down from some high too fast; Dean doubted that was the reason; hell, he _knew_ that wasn't the reason, simply because it was Sam, so his deduction didn't really count. He settled for tapping a knee against what he could reach; Sam's thigh, as it turned out. _Freaking giant_, he thought to himself.

"Of course. I even got to chat with his lovely girl. Jessica, right? In the flesh. I've heard so much about her. Shame she was just heading out when I came in – the timing was impeccable, I have to say." If Lucifer wasn't staring them down, he and Sam would have shared some sort of look. "One of those many talents the Winchesters and their friends seem to have."

"In spades," Dean said.

"Not that we don't appreciate the little courtesy call," Sam nudged his foot this time, shutting his brother up. "But are you sure you didn't come for a more… important reason?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

"I think I might have." Sam grumbled. Judging from his tone, his brother had calmed down, at least; instead of looking mad, he went back to appearing melancholy – an expression his brother had sadly perfected to an art years ago.

"And I told _you_, it would be rude to go on without your other half." Lucifer angled himself to stare at Dean better. "Where _were_ you anyway? It looked like you ran here all the way from, oh, Brighton Beach."

If Sam could mope like a champ, Dean had let his _'Nothing is wrong, don't worry Sammy'_ expression evolve over the years into one of the best poker faces the world had ever seen.

"Fair enough – let's get to business shall we?" Lucifer leaned back into his chair, listening to it creak. Hardly a business stance, but Lucifer wasn't one for finesse. "I suppose I can start with a congratulations to the both of you, on behalf of not ending up dead in a ditch in the four years you've been working for me."

"This isn't sounding too good of an introduction," Dean commented flatly.

"I think it's a pretty good offer."

"_You _think?" Sam said.

"Yes, if you'd just let me finish – I'm interested in giving out a little promotion – well, demotion, really, since you'll be getting paid less and doing tasks more closely related to a chauffeur."

Dean squinted. "…Mind if I ask _why_?"

"Well, you don't get something for nothing."

"Then, pray tell, what are we _getting_?"

"Your brother is getting a new life – and so are you – with some extra insurance."

Sam and Dean shared a lingering look. "Why?" Sam pressed, his arms were stretched out across the wooden tabletop, fingers interlaced together. They stopped just short of the table's circumference, as if he was afraid Lucifer would attack him for crossing an invisible line.

"You're not even sure what I'm dangling under your noses – the both of you are so suspicious, it's hardly any fun."

"I reckon that's what's kept us alive for so long." Dean said.

"Well, that amoung others. But really, if you think about it, I'm giving you both a once in a lifetime offer." He pointed to Sam. "You and your girl head out to California and lead a one-hundred percent normal life – no more mobs or mysterious deaths or two am job requests." He looked to Dean now, gesturing in a similar fashion. "And _you_ join them out there in a few years, once one of my understudies feels that you've appropriately played your part."

"No." Dean said immediately. "I don't know what you're playing at,"

Lucifer had the audacity to look offended – genuinely but-not-actually hurt. "I'm not playing at anything,"

"That's bull and you know it." Sam managed to lean forward even more, looking threatening. "Why split us up? Why now? And if we're such good little soldiers to you, then why kick us out of your work?" Lucifer's men shifted behind him, and for a moment Dean thought the that they were about to be given a Hobson's choice of saying yes or getting a leg or two forcibly removed, but Lucifer just cracked his neck and grinned once again.

"Investment." Their boss said, teeth shining at them.

Investment was a four letter word in the Winchester's line of work. It meant a lot of things: Rarely, it meant actual money was being traded, service and payment in large amounts; other times it was blackmail; other times it was weapons, or bribe money, or a few extra Suits in the back room, waiting to spill out if things went sour.

Dean had a feeling this was something a little different. "You've never been much of a straight-shooter." He said flatly, Lucifer seemed to appreciate Dean's dodge of the matters – finally getting him to play his little game.

"Never." Lucifer agreed. "Tell me something; the both of you were born out in the middle of the country, right?"

"Don't see what that has to do with anything-" Sam started, before Dean went: "_Sure_." Sam's foot twitched against his, and Dean knocked back, hoping his brother would get the message to shut it for a moment: his brother had always been more personable than Dean, but Lucifer wasn't the most human of people, anyway, and for once, Dean was relied on to do the talking.

"Parents must've moved out there, huh?"

Dean ignored the stab of memories; plenty of people were orphans, these days. "Grandparents were farmers back home, and they weren't too keen on getting into the meat-packing plants or starving out in the cities."

"You two look well-fed," Lucifer said conversationally.

"We're of a different breed," Dean supplied, shrugging, feeling his own muscles and the brush of Sam's bicep against his own, sitting as close as they were.

"Self-made men, the Winchesters, wouldn't you say?" Dean reckoned that was true, and a pointed look from Lucifer dragged Sam to respond in the same manner. Their boss got a pensive look, pursing his lips. He tucked a hand under his chin, using his thumb and forefinger to frame it before going, "Now let's see: Two brothers, tighter than most, sons of the Self Made Man, working for a prolific mob boss with not much loyalty except for themselves.

"What's stopping them from making their own start-up business?"

Sam was the one who cut in first; "A working brain stem?" Dean would laugh if he didn't have a clenched motion in his chest. "And a few bullets in the back ought to put a damper on a fledgling family business."

"Always were a quick thinker, Samuel," Lucifer commented. "Could've been a lawyer – might still be, if we get you in the right place." Lucifer crossed his legs then, and his shoes shined reflectively from the ceiling light. "Come on, the both of you have such a soft spot for beaches anyway. So look here," he waved one of his hands as a free gesture. "We – as in, my line of people, my treasury and all that – we put down some money for a wedding. You and Jess," Sam started at that. "What? I'd hope you planned on marrying her, Sam. Unless it's been a ploy for the last few years and you were just going to dump her to the side. That's awful cruel of you, don't you think?" Sam's jaw worked hard as he tried to keep his acid tongue rolled up in his mouth. Lucifer watched the internal battle he had started, mildly amused. "Hardly a breach in my bank account. And we'll even get you money for a train car.

"Can't make it look like I'm getting soft, of course, so your brother here can work for some other guy – make it seem like we had a trade off; a wedding and permanent anniversary as part of an employee exchange – and Dean'll come out for you two once the price is paid for. Then the both you can go around on killing sprees out west, if you want. Or not. It's all the same to me when you're a few thousand miles away." Dean had to hand it to his boss; he seemed pretty happy with their little engagement; the trouble was that it was elementary logic and nothing seemed to fit in the right place. Dean hated deals, anyway. Always a loop hole to abuse on the wrong person's side – always an unknown debt that you didn't expect to be paying for; something that you couldn't afford. His whole life had kind of felt like that, and like Hell if he'd be digging another hole to fall into.

"You're still not saying _why_, you know," Dean said.

Lucifer blinked. "Figured it was obvious. I mean, we saw what happened when Doctor Romano got put on the hit list. You two obviously don't care about anything besides yourselves. That sort of thinking hurts a system that we have here. Two guys, armed and dangerous? No, this is a way to put you off in time-out before someone puts a hit on the both of _you_. Someone like me. Happen to notice how popular your escapades are?"

Yeah, they noticed. Sam always saved their articles for research purposes – seeing if they were suspected in what crimes, if the wrong names and appearances cropped up, that sort of thing. Dean usually got a kick out of them. But the Romano case had been the tip of the iceberg, and the guy's name still made him kind of wince; there was the bravado during the mission, and then there was the shell, afterwards.

So, maybe Lucifer had been putting them on the spot, seeing what crazy shit they could handle, what they could survive through and what they could get away with. And then he got scared.

The Devil never really got scared though; he got smart. The Winchesters meant trouble – they had since before they were in New York; before their Dad bit it; before the childhood fire. Maybe before they were even born, everything had been star-crossed and marked up and ruinous just because Fate was a whore. And Lucifer decided that they were quickly outgrowing their use to him.

He was probably also smart enough to figure that if he wanted the Winchesters dead, he'd better get an army. Because not only did life have a desire to beat them to the ground, it also had the tendency to never make that final blow, either. How many times had Sam or Dean actually walked out of a place where no one had ever left before? Well, too many occasions to count.

Maybe there _was_ some sort of logic, here.

But it still didn't mean Dean was persuaded to go along with anything.

"Tell you what," Lucifer said, getting that there would be no response that wasn't his own. "I'll give you a few days: Yes or no to my generous gift. Say yes and you'll be picking between roses and daisies for the centerpieces. Say no?" his eyes twinkled. "Well, we'll see how long two brothers can last in a city that wants to kill them."

The chair squealed in protest as Lucifer straightened up, and he and his two men shuffled out of the kitchen. Behind them, the door to the apartment closed, and there was no visible sign that anyone else had been in that night.

But you could tell. Even if you weren't Sam or Dean, you could practically _smell_ the vileness – there was a stench of shoe polish and cologne of obnoxiously expensive variety, as if all that frivolous stink would wash away the blood and grave dirt and eroded, basic musk of evil that followed Lucifer everywhere he went; leaving people choking.

Dean tried to get up; it didn't seem to work, and he had to brace himself on the table for a moment to see how much weight his legs would take. His calves and thighs were stretched and sore from running, and he felt exhausted in every part of his body not overrun by paranoid fear. He run the sink's faucet and let the cold spray come to his face; run down his nose and lips. He still needed a drink, but it was obvious that it wasn't one you could get from the tap. He rubbed his eyes and turned around to stare at his brother, who looked just as bad as he did – always a pair, the Winchester boys.

So, no, Dean thought, getting out a bottle and two glasses – because Sam didn't like to drink, not really, but Dean knew he would be parched for something like this – Luciano was not, by any stretch of the word, the Devil. That was a superstition all the new parents would end up telling their kids; a new fangled boogeyman in the making. But even without the theological crap and magical misery, there was no bone in that man's body that wasn't blackened and rotten to the core.

**xxxx**

They were too exhausted to do much, now, and the brandy Dean had offered was putting them to sleep. Still, in lack of putting it off and having the spirits turn sour in their stomachs, Sam spoke up: "What are we going to do, Dean?" Sam said we, but it didn't detract Dean much; Sam was lost, and whether or not their predicament would make sense to his brother later, whether he'd be able to be an _adult_ about it later, he was looking to his older brother for help now. Dean didn't expect anything less; he was almost relieved; the fact that even at twenty-two, Sam still needed him.

The one problem was that, right now, Dean was feeling lost himself.

"You think we could just skip town?" Sam whispered, quiet.

"That's pretty much what he's asking us to do, plus a few extra goods. 'Sides, where would we go? Back to Jersey? They'd find us there. All down the East Coast, you know how they leg most of the booze up and down the states here; we might just piss him off for no good reason."

"We could go west," Sam offered.

"Yeah, but where?"

"Kansas?"

Dean's shoulders stiffened. "What in god's name's in Kansas?" Sam opened his mouth, realized the mistake and shut it. Dean knew that if his brother hadn't caught himself, he would've said 'Home'. "Man, you know we don't have that anymore. No family to go back to; our cousins and uncles and anyone else were left behind in the dirt when our grandparents legged it out there in the first place. It's just us."

Sam sighed; didn't he know it. "It's been just us for a long time, Dean."

"Yeah." He said, shifting in the chair. "Yeah, it has been."

"It almost seems like a good idea." Sam said. "Except we'd be leaving you. If it wasn't for that… it'd be like we won the lottery."

"Winchesters don't get that lucky," Dean muttered. He thought of Sam and Jess, smiling inside a church on the right side of the altar; the two of them sitting out on a far away, fairy tale shore, and his throat closed up. He wanted that life, but if there was only one thing he yearned for more, it was for Sam to have that sort of ending.

Sam, as if sensing Dean's thought went; "We're not gonna just leave you here. And you better not ask me to, 'cause I'll just say no."

"It's what you've wanted, though. A fresh start."

"It's what _we've_ always wanted. Wherever I go, whatever's in the future, you're supposed to be right there. You're the constant. I don't want anything else."

"You don't? I do." Dean stood up, holding a half-full glass in his hand. "I want to see my brother do something more than play cops and robbers all his life. I want to see him get married to a girl he's been with for longer than I've ever managed, with kids and a house and the whole shebang. You were always the smart one, Sammy. Didn't matter where we were, or how far behind you were in the lessons, you always got it; every single subject." He downed the rest of his glass in a gulp. "I gave up before I was seventeen. The only thing I want is you and a beach. You ought to want a lot more than that."

Sam almost looked scared, then. "You _want_ me to go." He said it like it was a crime. "You think we can trust Lucifer?"

"Do we _ever_ trust who it is we work for?" He put his cup in the sink, leaning against the counter, hands in his pockets. "He's bad, he's evil, but you don't get anywhere in this place unless you uphold your end of a deal."

"You're actually saying we should trust Lucifer."

"Trust has nothing to do with it!" Dean snapped. "It's just… You never asked to follow Dad, or me, going across this entire half of the country to chase down his ghosts. You could've been a lawyer by now, or a doctor or a freakin' car manufacturer; whatever. And maybe you can still do whatever the hell you want, and maybe I love you enough to want to give you that chance. It's not yes or no, not yet, but," he licked his lips. "This might just be something good, no strings attached."

"For me, maybe. Not for you." Dean didn't say anything. "You don't even care about what happens to you, huh? Don't mind that I'd be waiting on the other side of the damn country for a brother that'd never show up. That I'd spend the next years out there going crazy in between letters, wondering if you didn't write 'cause you were busy or if the mail got lost or if you were just plain old dead. Real nice of you."

"If we don't get out, we might both wind up dead, anyway."

"…I know," Sam said. There was a clink and a rattle; Sam twisting his glass across the table. "It doesn't seem like much of a gift to me, Dean. Wedding or not; you sure it wouldn't be easier to just run away forever?"

Dean snorted. "What, buy a car and go around from inn to inn, living off of gambling schemes and fishing scams for the rest of our lives? Who'd be dumb enough to do that?" He opened his eyes in time to see a quick smile pass on Sam's face.

"Yeah, guess so." He ducked his head. "We're not going to decide anything tonight, right?"

"'Course not. You gotta tell Jess, anyways. She'll be back tomorrow, right?"

"Unless she comes to her senses and stays away."

"Nah, she couldn't do that. All her stuff's here; she'd _have_ to come back." Sam pulled an annoyed face. "Guess we're sleeping on it." Dean said, helping Sam out of his chair and walking with him to his room.

Sam opened the door, stared longingly at the bed before glancing over at Dean one more time. "Something tells me there won't be much sleeping involved."

"Probably not." Dean watched the door close softly in front of him, and his murmured "Goodnight…" flew to pieces in the gentle rustling of air.

**xxxx**

**A/N: Oh Sammy I love you and your dynamic with Dean but this is the only way the plot works. And *headdesk. Oh yeah, there's plot in here, I hope that didn't catch anyone off guard. Looking back on this, I wondered if their conversation was border-lining on Wincest, but then I remembered this is pretty much how they are in the actual show, so. Yeah. No problem there. On an actual, meaningful note, this chapter had an extra scene that felt important but was not strictly necessary, so whether that shall be in the next installment remains to be seen. **


	8. Chapter 8, Time for a Wedding

Dean tried to smooth down the creases in his suit. He knew they were more imagined imperfections than reality; a way for his paranoia to resurface – he could see, in the audience of the church, familiar faces. The ones he only knew from work – the dangerous types that Sam and Jess would never, _ever_ put on the guest list. The back of his neck was sticky with sweat as he feared that a less than perfect ceremony would see bloody bodies spread out on the church floor.

It was like a dream. A nightmare. Except Dean knew, _he knew_ that all of this was much scarier than that; it was reality. Cold, unabashed, inarguable reality; it was Lucifer's deal, two months of planning coming to fruition; a catalyst that started the moment Jess came home, right on the heels of their boss.

Doctor Romano had been an acquaintance before, and that was the extent to which they explained it to Jess, the morning after Lucifer's visit. She came stumbling in, an overnight bag on her shoulder, hastily packed the night before when she had caught glimpse of Lucifer's singular car coming to a stop on the curb. Dean didn't know how she did it; keeping herself together while he and his brother were forced to slink around; listening to the gossip some of their escapades caused must have been torture, and she hardly asked for a thing. Women were kind of like that, anyway, but more often because the men told them not to say a word. She and Sam, though, they knew more about each other than some couples married for ten, twenty, thirty years. Equal in every way.

She loved him, then, it was as simple as that. It was more of a fact than a romance; love was one of those driving forces, the thing that kept him and Sam together without contempt, the thing that kept his brother and Jess understanding when their lives ran near parallels sometimes. He had so often wanted to thank her for that; for just _getting it_ without knowing, for giving his brother the one thing he couldn't. And at that moment, seeing her all tired and sick with worry, her hair matted as if she had merely sat, unblinking on a drape sofa in a friend's apartment until the first rays of morning shone through, he could see it: In the way she wrapped herself up tight in Sam's grasp, and they held on like they would drown unless they pressed themselves as close as they could manage.

He considered her family.

What wouldn't Dean do for family?

Dean knew it was all over at that moment.

The three of them had talked more, in eager voices; wondering why Lucifer would ever strike up a deal with them – mobsters, bootleggers, murderers, really. It wasn't a brand of business known for giving its long-term employees a crystal clock or coffee set. They managed to prop up a few theories, together. If they were willing to take out Doctor Romano to pay the rent, how could they say no to bringing an end to their scumbag of a boss? It could be that Lucifer was just getting rid of the best hitmen before someone decided to take advantage of their lack of loyalty. Lucifer, of course, had plenty of little demons ready to fill up the ranks, ones that posed less of a threat; ones he could send to the bottom of the sea with a bat of an eye.

He was breaking all the good toys.

_If _I_ can't have them, none of _you_ can._ It was kid logic, plain and simple.

That was what they had hoped.

The wedding and California slipped out afterwards. For a frightful moment, Dean wondered if he had misread the signs, assumed Jess was head over heels when she was just barely tolerating his brother. But just when he was thinking that all hope for Sam's happy ending was lost, she had a spark in her eyes that matched the bright glint of her teeth. She cracked a joke if Sam would have married her even if his job _wouldn't_ pay for it, and flung herself into his arms, where he was practically crushed, after previously sinking down in his seat from mortification. Dean had left the happy couple alone after that, merely proclaiming that he wanted to see a ring before the end of the summer. And that was that. He closed the door to the apartment, and spent the rest of the summer trying not to think that he had closed himself off from the two people who meant the most to him.

He now realized that he had been convincing himself for nothing. Sam and Jessica's new life was beginning in about five minutes, when she and the rest of the wedding procession burst through the doors of St. Andrew's Church – the closest one to their apartment, and the one Sam and Jess had attended for years; not that Dean could remember _that_.

In those few minutes, Dean stood beside Sam at the altar. The groom's men and maids and flower girls were all in a side preparation hall, and Dean knew that, being Best Man, he should have been there with them.

But he couldn't _leave_ _Sam_. And he wouldn't, not until he had to. There was an organ playing chords that floated out through the few open windows. Dean had an impressive view of the back of Sam's head; his hair was working its way from waved at the end to curly, late June heat invading the chapel. Dean leaned over and whispered, "I'd savor the moment, Sammy. These are your last few minutes of freedom."

Sam looked over, in too high spirits to pull the proper, pursed-lips glare. Dean called it the 'bitchface' but it had never really caught on with Sam. For _some_ reason.

Then his brother went, "You see them?" He didn't have to elaborate before Dean made another casual scan of the crowd.

"Yeah, I see them. Take it they didn't get an engraved invitation?" Lucifer hadn't made an appearance since they had accepted his deal. He recognized a few of his men by name and face – Adam Milligan especially. He had more of Dean's look than Sam. A half brother they had never gotten close to. Maybe Dean would have to, now. Considering.

He and Sam had their talk ages ago; plenty of them, actually, interspersed between wedding planning sessions. It was as if they couldn't _stop_ talking to one another – as if all their little moments would make up for the huge lapse in time they would have. It was obvious enough, when Dean stood beside Sam instead of lining up with all the other men and women, just so they could have one more moment of being simply Sam and Dean and nothing else. It was a final moment that lapsed by in normalcy; and the death of the simple existence of Him and His Brother passed silently in the proceedings. Dean watched the church doors as much as his brother's back, and when they opened, and the rest of the wedding party proceeded in, Dean subtly stepped back, away from Sam, more into line with everyone else. And when Jess finally made her grand entrance as the most beautiful woman in the room – in the world, at the moment – he saw Sam's shoulders hitch as he took in a surprised, relieved, delighted breath, and he knew that the solidarity they had between them for twenty-two years was over.

And that was the thing. Dean had always been taught to protect Sam, to keep Sam safe. Before his brother was a year old, he was already the most important thing in Dean's life. He realized that playing Mom, Dad, role model, a knight in shining armor, friend, a _brother_, and anything else he needed to be made him rely on Sam more than the other way around. He needed Sam. And, at the time, Sam needed him. But now? Dean was pushing Sam off, watching him free himself from the cage he and Dean had constructed for themselves in childhood. He had Jess now, a future. He had the key out of this place, but Dean was still trapped inside.

Sam was leaving. _Now what?_ Dean tried to imagine someone else filling his brother's place and couldn't. He had the sick feeling of drowning, the weight of bars pressing in from all sides.

The priest opened a gold cut tome and addressed the crowd, "We have gathered today…" and by the end of the service, Dean had been moved to tears, though he was hard pressed to know what had been the motivation.

**xxxx**

The reception was in the lounge of the Prospect Hotel, so close to the Bay that you could hear the gulls' pitched whine every time you went out for a breather. As usual, Dean felt better after a few glasses worth of champagne were shoved down his throat. Most of the hotels on Surf Avenue had retained their liquor license, which made them the perfect place to hold a party of any kind. That might have been the only slightly appealing thing when Dean thumbed through the available one-room apartments in the city, and one on West 31st – a bit East of the hotel – had seemed decent.

The reception hall was rented out for the evening, and a few forward thinking guests had bought rooms upstairs, so there was a constant stream of men and women dragging themselves out while more attendees, freshly rouged and rested, replaced them.

Dean took his job of best man in stride; making sure he took his date – was it a cousin of the bride or a friend or a cousin-like friend? – on enough spins across the dance floor. He flirted with the women and joked with the men and kept on eye on his brother to make sure that Sam hadn't gone and drowned himself in the punch bowl or anything like that.

Now it was late enough that most guests could only manage a wobbling slow dance. The Maid of Honor disentangled herself from Dean and announced that their arranged date had gone well, and she was retiring upstairs. A calling card with her room number was slipped inside his breast pocket. She took his handkerchief – a blue silk to match the maid's dresses – and went off with it, a dirty promise in the future for him.

Dean worried that something was wrong with him, because instead of smirking and toying with the invitation tucked away in his jacket, he felt saddened that the cloth had been taken away, as if his date had deeply wronged him somehow.

He remained on the edge of the dance floor, drinking what had once been chilled zinfandel but was now merely watered down. He determinedly chased an elusive, numbing buzz and did not cease drinking until a man to the right of him coughed.

Dean looked over, assuming a fluke, but caught sight of Crowley; a short, vaguely plump man with thinning black hair.

Crowley, Dean wasn't sure if the man possessed a last name – or if that one was honestly his first. He had an accent, somewhere between British and Scottish, but his stature and supposed family were from the likes of Sicily. Enough to pass for a Brooklyn mob boss.

Dean nodded to him in greeting, trying to remember if he had seen him in the chapel hours before. Crowley made some faint compliment to the party, and Dean dutifully nodded his head. "Lucifer always possessed a talent for sweet-talking deals, of course." Dean stiffened at that; he hadn't known exactly how publicized their collaboration with Lucifer was going to be, and it put him on edge.

Crowley took notice. "Don't look so much like a kicked puppy. I have a right to know."

"Being the city's gossip?"

"Being your new boss, actually."

Dean sputtered, tried to hide it by coughing, before finally pouncing on a moving tray of cheap wine. _"You?"_ he said finally.

"I thought I might come here to introduce myself."

"Why you?" Dean asked, a sour look twisting on his face, and he was too far gone for that to be just from the rough taste of the drink. "Did you talk with Lucifer? Did he ever tell you why – "

Crowley held his hand up. "I came here for a chivalrous courtesy call, not to be interrogated. Besides, it's one of your brother's last days in the city; I wouldn't want to waste it talking business. But that's just my opinion, of course."

Dean huffed into his glass. "Figured you were the kind of guy to take the work with you,"

"On the contrary," Crowley said, "I do enjoy a good party now and then. You must have been to one of mine before."  
>"I might've,"<p>

"Well, I'll make sure to forward you an invitation then, hm?" Crowley gave him a tight-lipped smile, as if amused over something that he never said out loud. He clapped Dean on the shoulder and leaned towards him, quietly saying, "You can come by the offices in Dyker next Friday. I look forward to seeing you work for me, Mr. Winchester." And then he was walking away, the sound of his shoes muted by the ten-piece orchestra.

Dean kneaded his fingers into his jaw for a moment, trying to unclench his teeth. He managed to drink the rest of what was in his glass before taking the calling card out of his pocket.

Sam and Jessica were presumably up in their room, and Dean needed at least an hour's worth of distraction.

**xxxx**

Dean found his way to Sam's room – a grand set with a furnishing of couches and curtains; a large bed deep set in the room. He was still far flung from sobriety, but he was together enough to make sense and not ramble. Instead he was merely without inhibitions. Sam would argue Dean never had any of those _anyway_, but really, no inhibitions for either of them just meant the pull of honesty.

Sam pulled open the hotel room door, rubbed at his eyes. "Dean?"

"I just came to say goodnight," he suddenly felt that his presence was unwelcome. He had two months to say goodbye properly; a man's wedding night was not the time to reminisce about _good ol' days_.

"It's…" Sam paused and leaned back, hand on the door frame to brace the stretch; Dean presumed he was looking at a far off desk clock. "It's almost three in the morning,"

"Is that Dean?" Jess came up besides Sam. While his brother had only managed to remove his cuffs, collar and dinner jacket, Jessica's hair was pulled out of its elaborate up-do, and every single speck of her glamorous wedding outfit had been sent somewhere else. She was back in a cotton blouse and relaxing skirt, hair down and messy, like it was another Saturday morning she'd been spending inside all day. Jess was the type of woman who enjoyed that flashiness that life occasionally offered regular folk, but she never wasted time mourning its loss when it was over; never had a need to want more than what she always had.

Except perhaps the addition of Sam, a permanent fixture in her life; Dean hadn't mistaken the fact that it was a friend's Father and Mother sitting in for her missing parents, whether they were gone or merely disapproving was a piece of information Dean had never gotten around to knowing – he didn't appreciate his own family history, so he had never attempted to grow curious enough to pry.

She looked between both men and put a hand on Sam's arm. "I think… I have a few words to say to some other people, too." She disappeared for a moment, to put on some flat shoes, and padded down the hallway.

Dean was ushered in then, wringing the little piece of blue cloth that smelled of rosewater perfume, and bodies tangled together passionlessly. Sam saw the motion, took in Dean's rumpled state of dress and mingled scents. "You have fun?" he asked.

"By the regular definition? Yeah." Sam watched his brother sink onto one of the drop couches, tucking away the handkerchief as an afterthought. "Anything happen while I was gone?"

Sam thought for a moment. "One of the groomsmen managed to half-drown himself in the punch bowl." Dean snorted.

"It was Ash, wasn't it?"

Sam laughed. "Uh, yeah. We took him up here, cleaned him up and sent him back home. A few of Jessica's friends came up here to make it a party."

"Who was the Maid of Honor? Do you know?" Sam shrugged.

"She's moving to Europe soon, I think. So Jess let her be head maid before she left America for good. That's all I know."

Dean hummed absently. Then said, "I met the new boss."

"What?"

"Guy I'll be working for was downstairs, drinking brandy and talkin' to me for a minute."

"Who is he?"

Dean smirked. "Take a guess."

"Someone we know?" his brother's eyes got a wide, worried look in them; "Oh God, Dean, don't tell me it's Alastair – Lucifer wouldn't of… I mean, would he?"

"You think I'd be smiling if I was back with that guy again?" he leaned his head back against the arm of the couch. "It was just Crowley. No need to get your stockings in a twist."

From the odd angle, he watched Sam flop on the couch, his slumped posture one of relief. "Okay, Crowley. I can deal with that."

"_You're_ not working for anyone anymore, remember?"

"Might as well be… You saved the apartment's address right? So you can write to us?"

"'Course."

"And you have enough for the down payment on the new apartment for next week, right?"

"Yep."

"And you can get a car to take us all to the train station?" Dean let out a breath and threw an arm over his eyes. He didn't feel like talking anymore. He was dead tired, but he couldn't bring himself to just up and leave. Sam and Jess would hop on a passenger car tomorrow at nine, and Dean knew he'd be too hungover to do anything decent, so this goodbye needed to happen now.

Even with an arm over his face, Sam seemed to know exactly what he was thinking. "Have any regrets?" he asked softly.

"Last few drinks, maybe."

"I'm being serious, here."

"So am I," he sat up, scrubbed at his face. "Do I, what? Regret letting you and Jess go have the lives you deserved? Normal and happy? Away from all of this?"

"It's not going to be easy on you," Sam stated.

"You think riding around, taking care of you for twenty-six years was easy on me, either?" Sam's mouth twitched, but it could have been a smile or a grimace. Dean sighed and came away with a wince, "God, I remember, you were five when you asked me how Mom died – why we kept moving around, why we didn't have a regular house, why Dad never talked about his job. You remember that?" Sam shook his head. "I… I tried not to tell you; figured you deserved to be a kid a little bit longer." He looked down then. "I'm nothing compared to Mom, or even Dad, you know, _before_." Dean swallowed, not quite knowing where the sentiments came from. Sam didn't seem to know either, but it was going to be a long while before they could do this again, just _talk_, so Dean continued. "But you're still the best guy I've ever known, Sam. And I know pretty much everything about you, too, so either all the guys I know are awful bastards or…" he tried to chuckle a bit, but his throat clenched up. He stood, trying to breath clearer. "A few years away ain't nothing; because before you know it, I'll be getting on a train and coming out there and moving in with you and Jess; get somewhere on the shore, where the sun hardly sets. I can wait for that. And it'll be easier if I know that you're happy out there."

Sam cautiously rose to his feet. "I'll be happy out there," he conceded, before pulling Dean into an embrace. "But I'll be happiest when you get out there too, I think, so hurry, alright?" Dean felt the muscles in Sam's arm clench around his shoulders. Without thinking his fingers were on his brother's back, his fingers paling with effort as he pressed Sam closer, relishing the bone crushing hug. Of course they mostly didn't hug anymore – it was something grown men just didn't _do_ so much – but in that moment, one could take away the extra muscles and height both men had gotten in their lives, and they were two kids again, reuniting after a long day of separation, or some sort of slip up that meant blood and bruises from a childhood misadventure.

It was as if after all those years, they had never forgotten how to do that – underneath the time and scars and the marriage, there were still some things that would never, ever change.

Dean cried once already, and had no intention of doing so again. Besides, the clenching in his chest, the hardness in his throat? This time, Dean knew what it was from; and above all things, it wasn't sadness.

**xxxx**

**A/N: I so did not spend multiple, frustrating sessions with my story planner to try and (futilely)set this up so that this chapter would be number seven, and I could entitle it, "Chapter Seven, Time for a Wedding!" because I liked that particular episode, alright? St. Andrew's is an actual Catholic church, located less than a mile from where Sam, Dean, and Jessica's apartment would be in Bay Ridge. Also, I will totally blame the lack of updates on the fact that weddings, fictional or not, are one of the most boring things on God's Green Earth and I hate writing them.**


	9. Snuff

"Crowley's more careful than I took him for; this thing's probably big enough for _two_ people." Guy said to Dean, taking a small, embroidered cloth out of his pocket and wiping at his forehead. It was long past dusk, but the heat of early July pulled through. Dean, in the much simpler attire of a dress shirt and slacks, was boiling. He didn't know how Guy managed to stick himself in high-end suits day after day, no matter how grungy the outfits got. The man usually laughed off complaints of the heat; he said it was in his black blood, the tolerance. "My great-great grand daddy was brought to Virginia over a century ago…" and that's how you got him started. Dean got it, though. Clothes made the man, and it didn't matter how 'forward' their generation was, a black man was still a black man, after all.

He had went to Crowley's a week after bidding Sam and Jess a very long good-bye. Most of the jobs took him straight to the black market. "Anything for anyone at any time," was the motto there. Sometimes Dean would be tasked for making personal deliveries, occasionally starting a fight to keep his end of the deal up. The strangest things had passed from his hands to others; paintings, whiskey, narcotics, estranged heirlooms, even iced body parts, once – Dean had never asked about that one.

On the other end of the spectrum, the admittedly much bloodier part, there was the debt collecting.

Crowley, like Alastair, had once been a high-end worker for Lucifer. Crowley still kept the relations between his former-boss lukewarm, while Alastair had more or less fled into the Northern part of the burrow to run his own legion of street thugs, not long after Dean had gone from his grasp.

Crowley's break off obviously had a great deal more class, and he now spent his time doing more off-color trades than all of the merchants on Wall Street. The difference between them was that he would make sure a debt was paid in full.

Breaking some bones, cutting a few extremities, Dean had done much worse for way less, and counted himself lucky. They were about halfway done now, him and Guy, making sure that the hole they were digging was deep enough for their assignment – Phillip Wong, a middle-aged second gen Orient that couldn't pay his dues on time.

"Pretty quiet tonight, Dean." Guy said, reaching down to give Dean a boost out of the pit they had dug. "What's a matter, cat got your tongue?"

"More'n that," Dean mumbled as he righted himself, wiping stray bits of grave dirt on his thighs. "Help me dig up some of that underbrush over there." They moved back towards the trees. Crowley and his company often lent out some cars for the men to use, if needed. They were in one of the most isolated parts of the entire city, in Queens, of course. There was still a lot of green, a lack of skyscrapers, and even a few plots of unclaimed land that sat on uneven ground, still covered with the typical lining of trees that differentiated it from a park, and made it a forest, good and proper. Given a few years, most of it would be plowed and leveled, but if they ever discovered Wong's body – and probably another thirty after that – the evidence would be long gone, and Dean just as scarce. "It's just the day, I think." Dean said, accidentally hitting his shovel against a pile of rocks. "The nineteenth gets to me."

"Anniversary?" Guy guessed.

"Yeah." Dean finished spreading around the dirt and lit up, leaning on the edge of his shovel. "Something like that."

"That's too bad." Guy began kicking some brambles and stray leaves about, confusing the already overgrown, organic path. Wong would've gone into the Jamaica Bay if there hadn't been rumors of some guardsmen lurking about. It put a damper on their plans, so instead of trying to get money to buy potential witnesses off, they had just borrowed a car and driven away. "When's Crowley's next party?"

"Why? So I can distract myself? No such luck; he had one last week."

"That one was fun."

"Didn't see you there."

"Well most of the people don't see much of anything except snuff powder after a few hours." Dean hummed in the affirmative, trying not to clench up his fists. He watched Guy spread out more rough top soil, before going back over to Wong's body, wrapped up in a staunch blanket they found in the man's bachelor apartment. "Might as well get him down there," he said, bending over, rolling the corpse towards the hole. Dropping the shovel, Dean shoved the body down, until it disappeared into the gaping mouth in the earth. It was too dark to see much of anything, and if it wasn't for the solid _thump!_ that echoed out, he wouldn't have known what happened to the body after all. His accomplice let out a pleased noise that made Dean's stomach ache. Rising to his feet, Guy reached into his trousers to pluck out a white wrapped cigarette of his own. Dean finished his, threw it down into the hole and watched the small orange illumination flare in the ground for a scant moment. "Ever try it?"

"What?"

"That snuff stuff; not the tobacco, the other thing." Dean closed his eyes for a while, stuck a hand into his pocket. "Not as powder," he answered into the fissure. Guy seemed pleased at that, because he nodded his head and turned to face Dean with a flourish.

"Well, then, any last words?" Dean stared straight on at his temporary partner; the only parts he could pick out in the darkness were his smiling teeth, the whites of his eyes, and the stub of a still burning stick in his lips. He stretched his arm out from its resting place, letting it still at his hip.

"Yeah," there was a subtle click by Dean's side. "Crowley gives his regards; says, 'I'll see you in Hell,'"

"_Wh_-"

A quick bang from the gun; a flash of white hot light, and Guy was pushed back with not so much of a gasp; his body crumpling and falling down into the grave of Philip Wong – _a grave probably big enough for _two_ people_ - with only the flickering glow of his cigarette to light the way.

Dean stilled for a thoughtless moment, wondering if anyone was near enough to hear, but nothing and no one came by, and he gripped at his shovel and finished up, trying to will away anything but the sound of dirt being put back in the ground. Dean rarely took a partner on jobs, even with the array of foreign assignments he was given; this one counted as a double hitter: The first was for David, and the second was for a fellow employee that tended to get a little too trigger happy; Crowley said that Guy had screwed up 'negotiations' in the past, not intimidating the target of choice into spitting out information or a safe combination, but instead blowing their brains out. It was a crime against proper order, Crowley had argued, ruining his reputation and leaving holes in his balancing book. For all of Guy's irritating mannerisms, Dean thought to himself if the man would've had anyone watching over his grave, if he could have been allowed a proper funeral; if he had kids somewhere, left wondering where their Dad went. It could have been a twisted form of commiseration, or it could have been the date, Dean wasn't sure.

John Winchester had died on July 19th, 1924, somewhere on the north end of Jersey.

Dean had always said 'murdered', but not in a maliciously planned way. Probably. No one knew exactly _where_ he died, because on Monday he had been getting a drink to celebrate a recent drug ring bust that went considerably nice, and that Wednesday his body was on the shore of the beach, seaweed all he had for clothes and gulls pecking about his ears. No gun-shot wounds or knife gashes, no traces of cyanide or an overdose of morphine, and no cement shoes. The bruises in the mid-section revealed a crushed ribcage. From what could be determined, John Winchester was killed by a drunken idiot who rammed into him at sixty miles an hour and dumped the evidence into the sea.

The police force John had temporarily wriggled into had paid for a cheap pine casket and a basket of lilies. Sam was seventeen; he picked out a plot of land. Dean, twenty-one, purchased the tombstone.

The service was unimportant. Sam and Dean dressed in their best black suits, their best black shoes, and long overcoats – it was hot, but they weighed themselves down with layers, just like John had always done – it was a mournful flare and an homage to their Father. Some of the attendees had whispered things like, _John always wore an extra jacket; figures that his sons take after him_. The two brothers carried the coffin with another quartet of police officers through muddy slush; remains from a storm that had probably brought John's body to shore in the first place. They adjusted their eyes by ticks as the coffin was lowered into the ground.

People shook their hands and wrote down their addresses and gave them a dollar or two to help with the cost. Everyone left the graveyard thinking what two young orphans would manage to do with themselves, miles from home and nowhere to go?

Sam and Dean pondered that, also. They stuck by the site, waiting for the grave diggers to come by. They both still half-expected John to show up – it was his own funeral, for Christ's sake.

"He could be funny like that, if he wanted to be," Dean had said on the subject, staring down at the pit.

"This isn't funny at all." Sam sniffed, his nose was red.

"It will be when he gets here." Dean insisted.

But John couldn't be bothered to show up, or even send them a postcard of where he'd gone off to. Dean figured Mexico, because all respectable villains went to Mexico and it was about time they left the country to chase them down. Sam thought that was ridiculous, that John wouldn't just up and leave without telling them, and there were plenty of demons and monsters and ghosts lurking around in the States still, anyway.

It never occurred to them that their Dad was just dead. Not for a long while. Even still, Dean woke some nights with the wispy vision of his Father, chasing down the cruelties of men in faraway lands. But it never really lasted. Of course John was dead, after the waves of stupid grief had passed and they could think right. They were left with more of a legacy than memories of their Father; John had spent the better part of twenty years going from town to city as a private detective, farmhand, hired muscle, police officer; an entity all his own, working below the law or in the shadows of it, ensnaring anyone from a pick pocket to a murderer. It was an indirect method of vengeance. To destroy the thing that killed his wife.

Dean remembered how they would trek through what felt like every square inch of land east of the Mississippi. Taking rides from strangers or hoping on storage cars and trains, even going on foot. Miles and miles crisscrossed all over, never once returning to Lawrence, never really returning anywhere they had been. At the time, there had appeared to be no reason. John was either trying to protect his children from his motives or thought them too simple to be of any use. He trained them at least, let them fight like boys and correct them till they went at it like men. He made sure their aim was exceptional, but he never once told him where he went after his work shifts had long ended. Nor why they often had to skip town in the middle of the night.

Eventually they figured it out themselves; that Mary's killers weren't faceless addicts like the saved newspaper clippings had alleged. John had names and plans that died with him, and he and Sam had been left ignorant, on a cold trail with nothing to go on. The moment after the funeral they were packing their bags – Sam already graduated from the twelfth grade – and they vanished, one of the few tricks their father had actually indulged to teach them.

They moved to a tenement in Brooklyn. It had rats and walls about as thick as rice paper, but they had spent weeks sleeping in sacks out in the sprawling forests of Virginia, they had spent half their lives being hungry, and Dean had already done plenty of unspeakable things for money when John had been too long between jobs and their savings were spent. The Winchesters were not strangers to hardship, though when an actual family relation – a teenage Adam Milligan – encountered them, it was a relief. Looking back Dean wasn't quite sure that the whole thing hadn't been a set up, but work was work.

Like most people being introduced to the mob, it wasn't ever said outright. Adam described his tasks as '_a little of this, a little of that,_' and to most folks it would be odd, but acceptable. Sam and Dean already knew what _this and that_ consisted of, though. They knew what they were getting into, possibly for the forseeable future, too. But their father was dead and gone, and Dean had no further instruction but the usual mantra of, 'Take care of Sam', and not starving seemed to be the easiest way to do _that_.

Adam was a lackey of Lucifer, and it was four months of working through the loosely tied boss Alastair – four months of hellish torture – before he and Sam got noticed by the Devil of Brooklyn himself. Everything seemed easier after that. And a few years later, Sam was married to a nice girl, living out in Venice, and soon enough Dean would be out there, too.

And that would be it.

Two, three more years. It was hardly a challenge, he persuaded himself.

Every day, he persuaded himself.

If that didn't work there was always something to grab. Cocaine had worked after John, and he kept vials around as a reminder after that, but it didn't feel good anymore. There was too much to feel, and no one to take him home and scream at him for being a stupid, selfish bastard; no one to make him promise not to do that again, so he stopped, for a brother that he only saw in bi-weekly letters.

The last of the dirt had been packed tight back into its original spot, and Dean grasped his and Guy's shovels, leaning his arm and body weight on them. He had taken to carrying a flask with him, nowadays, and he took it from a pocket, eyeballing the half of whatever was left.

"Wonder what you're up to now, Sammy." Dean said very quietly to himself, as if in the stagnant weeks he hadn't spent in a haze he had thought of anything else at all.

He wondered if the city was going to break him again, like back when he had first started. He felt exposed and fragile constantly; a blip of distress signals emanating from every pore, every word, every desperate reach for a distraction, a bottled emotion. He didn't think he was strong enough to survive this.

Or that there was anything left to him that was even worth ruining.

In one of the darkest and most isolated parts of the city, Dean Winchester said "_Cheers_," and emptied the flask down his throat.

**xxxx**

**A/N: Now, Winchester Angst is the easiest thing in this fandom. So, a quick note on two things. Remember that this is a Historical fanfiction, and I try to keep things close to fact – this means referencing that African Americans and many other races were considered second class at the time. I'm certainly **_**not**_** advocating that was the right thing to do. Dean's own opinions on black people is indifferent; he's not racist, probably because he's been to the South and seen plenty of hate crimes, so most of his commentary is more of what the average Caucasian would think of Guy (Who is another reference to **_**'Season Seven, Time for a Wedding!'**_**) Moreover; the ethnic prejudice that holds dominance in this story is more centered on Russians and Italians not caring for one another. Secondly, Cocaine had been mentioned previously, and yes, Dean is a habitual user; it's not unlikely that he used drugs in the actual show, but due to network restrictions, the **_**Supernatural**_** writing team stuck to just borderline alcoholism. At this point, Dean mostly turns to the substance when he feels depressed, so the first time he tried it would likely have been after John's death. He stopped using it between chapters 8 and 9, for his brother. If you have any other comments about issues brought up in this chapter, feel free to leave it in a comment.**


	10. Funny these Coincidences

So that was how Dean spent the summer – the first half of it, at least. Simply miserable, working or otherwise. The dives that he went to offered him relief for a few hours, but he could never get any further than that. Breathing things just didn't seem to hold his attention any more than a blade of grass; he was immune to conversation, personal connection on all fronts, and anything more or less stimulating than a bottle of half-decent moonshine was avoided, including a handful of half-empty glass vials locked far away in one of his trunks – an unspoken promise to his brother that he wouldn't go there again. Once, twice, after Guy acknowledged it in the unsafe world of the reality that was not a basement bar, he relinquished it, stopped it from becoming another comfort. He was still breaking the law, still killing himself as the days went by, but at least he wouldn't have pock marks running up and down his veins, and he wouldn't have to face his problems in the form of scars every time he stripped down for restless sleep.

It was later now, in the day of the month and in the hour of night, and Dean was finished for the weekend; two days of reprieve and drinking himself into an amnesiac state, wondering when Sam's next letter would come, if it would come at all. All he had to do now was drop of the car.

Night came slowly in July, blue navy slowly eating up the clouds and rich sunset, dimming for hours before getting dark. Dean's car – Crowley's car, all black and tight, felt like a hearse, but Dean liked it by default – liked the machinery thrumming under his body, his mind unfocused and aimless, hands steady at the wheel. It was a genuine comfort, a genuine pleasure. Maybe in a few years he'd have a bug of his own – driving down the golden roads, his family in the open seats with a static filled radio bursting out voices and symphonies as they went.

Dean went over a particularly harsh bump in the road and startled, glancing at where his unconscious had taken him.

He wasn't in Coney Island, or near the private lot, that was for sure. Looking around, he recognized the dark, stout buildings as home stores; brick walls with white faces.

He inched forward, working through the addresses more by memory than house number.

The tailor shop stood, unspectacular and nigh identical to every other shab building on the street, but Dean knew it immediately, using something a little more than the basic sense of sight.

The lights were off, but it was late, anyway. He could have kept driving west, he knew, come back another day, but he wasn't sure he would return if he was honest with himself. Castiel and his family and their store had been passing images while in the frenzy of wedding plans, and afterwards he was too busy being drunk on his own guilt; he meant to come back, but it had been nearly three months by this point; what was the meaning in that? All Dean felt was a burning, roiling shame in his gut, knowing that perhaps there was a reason why he never bothered to find someone else to warm his bed except for that one woman, face forgotten, name never learned, and even then the memory of her presence seared him, calling from the past.

_I shouldn't be here_, he thought.

But in the darkness, alone by himself and in the cover of shadows, things seemed much simpler; easier to do, _and would it really be so bad to see him?_ He wondered as well. Dean slowly turned onto the side of the road, lights flowing into the alley next to the shop.

At the edge of the darkness, he could make out some figures, huddled into the wall. Dean guessed if it were a group of drunks, or a bunch of friends, sharing secrets like Castiel said – maybe Castiel was out there too, who knew? He found himself longing for the man, just to talk with, to search out his calming presence, even if he'd get rejected and sent away on sight.

The door slammed and Dean worked his way onto the street, hands in his pockets.

"Winchester," a voice cut from the alley, warm as blood. "Right on time."

Dean knew that voice – it came to him in his nightmares, along with the white, bloody faces of his jobs and the staunch dead bodies of his parents, and the future visions of an estranged brother and grave dirt and dread that came up like bile to choke him.

The man's name was Alastair, and he was half the reason why the Brownsville neighborhood up North was referred to as 'Murder Inc.'

Dean knew firsthand the kind of reputation Alastair had viciously carved out for himself.

Across the street, a room's light turned on and drifted down in a hazy orange design. It was just enough to let color lazily flow into their concrete corner, Alastair's gray eyes reflected the pale illumination; shining a powdery white that read like decomposition and poison to him.

Dean swallowed; drawing in closer, eyeing the man sprawled all over the ground – the thing the other men had been surrounding. He saw black hair matted with grit and sweat, wrapped in a bloody trench coat – it was all he could make out through the grime and slouched position.

It was enough. He forced himself to look back at Alastair – the odd light was gone, but Dean still felt like he was staring down a demon, come up from Hell for his soul. Or the tailor's. He bit down on his molars, and nodded to Castiel's form. "What'd he do to you?" Alastair chuckled, his throat raspier than the last time Dean had been with him.

"The usual thing," Alastair said, nudging one of Castiel's legs with the toe of his shoe, prodding him. "Wrong place at the wrong time." Dean nodded, absently, trying to keep his gaze steady, not on Castiel's body. He knew this game. The other men had shifted into the background; they weren't about to do anything more than look menacing. Alastair never did fight fair, but he had too much pride to not let himself win his own battles.

"Could say the same for you, Al." The other man narrowed his eyes, trying to perceive a hidden meaning behind the words. If there was one decent thing to come from being subjugated to Alastair's demented form of training, it was that he had learned the ways of the guy – maybe even enough to help Castiel. Dean decided not to let the other question him, he dived right in; "Hear about me and Crowley?" he asked.

Alastair's gaze drifted to the borrowed car. "Something about a new chew toy, yes. How is the man, anyway?"

"Fine enough. Shrewd as usual." Dean made a few casual steps, feet crunching on the gravel. "Thinking of… expanding his horizons, that sort of thing." He wormed his way closer to the group of men, and Castiel by extension. "And you're unfortunately treading on marked territory, here."

"Here? Of all places? Dean, tell me what a… '_shrewd'_ man like Crowley would want with a shoddy bay-side county crawling with communists?"

"Oh, he has that scholarly look; reminds the people around here of Lenin." There was a ripple of snickering from the grunts behind Alastair; as his scowl twisted further on his face, Dean found a smug smile planting itself on his. He swiveled in his stance a bit, acting casual. "I'll admit, it's kind of my fault."

"What isn't Dean Winchester's fault?" Dean had enough control to laugh along with the thugs.

"Cute." He smacked a hand against the brick of the Novak's tailor shop. He was nearly upon Castiel now, and he strained his ears to hear breathing, groaning, the shuffling of his arms – something. "But I mean that I've been a customer of this place for some time now. Decent quality," he managed to look down at Castiel's broken body with an upturned lip, his eyes acidic and mean. "For a bunch of Russian bastards, at least. I guess I was never one for high quality stuff anyway. But I'm sure you understand that, don't you?"

Alastair silently gauged Dean's expression, then hazarded a guess; "The Family force you out?"

"Spite kept me away. Crowley, charitable fellow, figured he'd promote the circuit around here, get traffic going. This shit place makes for good meetings, and none of these guys are in gangs, they're poor merchants off the boat who managed to stay out of the gutter by whoring out for the guy with the fattest wallet." He shot a weighted glance at Alastair, and when their eyes met he tried to subdue the queasy feeling in his stomach. "You coming in here and beating those happy customers to hell? Not good for Crowley's business. And by extension, not too great for you and your friends."

Alastair glared, he even snarled a bit, feral and wild. "So," he reeled himself in on immediate notice. "The new boss wants to protect your personal playground and, hum," he paused as Castiel moaned on the ground, probably slowly gaining consciousness again, waking up to the pain. "Boy toy, I suppose." Another ripple of laughter, and Dean had to force himself to stay rooted to the ground; not leap forward and claw at Alastair's throat. Because that was the only way the bastard deserved to go down. The quick mercy of a bullet was too forgiving; he deserved to suffer, be ripped apart and torn wide open. One day, Dean had promised himself, not long after being taken under the man's sadistic employment, one day he'd end the man the way he deserved to go, and it wouldn't be quiet, that was for sure.

But now was not that time. Instead he said, "I can use the son of a bitch any way I want; Crowley owns him, I just get in on the fun. Now, do yourself a favor Al, and walk away. I'm just the messenger; trust me – all the teenagers you rake in, and all the stolen guns you have aren't a match for what Crowley can pull outta his sleeve; you and I both know it, so just cut your damn losses and run." He gave a light kick to Castiel's thigh, and the man grunted. "This kid'll be seeing you in his nightmares; I think you and your buddies can drink to that."

The two men stared each other down in the darkness. There was nothing more to say, and Dean had already pushed as much as he could with sweet talking anyway, made it sound like he was helping the other guy out, not being the threat, that sort of thing. It made it easier for Alastair to turn tail and run, and when his former boss finally dismissed his men, and stomped on right past Dean like it was all part of a Grand Plan, Dean and Alastair both knew who had won that little game.

A few burly men shoved Dean aside with their shoulders, cast him sour glances, but Dean didn't really react; he was looking out, where the gang used to be, where he could see another wide street coming out from between the two buildings, the same path Castiel had taken him to the park that spring.

He stood there, unmoving for, god, minutes and minutes and minutes. Just to be sure that he was truly alone. The things he had said about Castiel weren't that different from insults he had aimed at other people, but he wanted so badly to lean down and tell Castiel that it was all stage play, and he hadn't meant what he said, not a single word. Crowley was just a ploy he needed for the moment, and it wasn't like Alastair would actually check into that fact; besides, for all Dean knew, Crowley _had_ set up some sort of deals in the area – he could've owned the street he was standing on, for Christ's sake, and Dean wouldn't know it.

Down below him, Castiel made some more noise. Immediately Dean was dropping down onto his knees, trying to make everything better. "Hey, Cas," he whispered, reaching around the other's abdomen, trying to pull him up. "Are you okay?"

"Does it _look_ like I'm okay?" he hissed out. Once Dean moved him up enough he leaned back against the wall of the building, his eyes cracked open and he squinted. "Is that really you?"

Dean stared down at Castiel's clothes; he didn't know how bad Castiel was hurt. He could see blood on his collar, the front of his shirt, his hands, but he couldn't do anything in the dark. "Funny these coincidences, huh?" he said. "What happened?"

"I went out for a smoke," Castiel said, looking up at the sky. There were no stars, not in the city, just a black hole above their heads. "They saw me, and – "

He paused. Shut his eyes. Dean shook him. "And what, Cas? What did they do? Castiel,"

His eyes opened again. "And they beat me to Hell, damnit, what do you want me to say?" he sat silently again. "It's painful to talk."

"Is anything broken, you think?"

"My head hurts, my neck, my – everything, actually." He sighed. "I don't know. Maybe some ribs, but I think I got out lucky this time."

"Lucky,"

Avoiding the deadpan, Castiel went; "You worked for Alastair before?" his eyes slipped closed again. He didn't open them when Dean hesitated in answer.

"We need to get you inside." Dean said finally. "Anna, Gabriel, is anyone still up?"

"Maybe. You need a key to get into the shop."

"Where – "

"Left pocket." Dean shoved his hand into the trench coat, having to lean over a bit to make it to the bottom of the deep pockets. He could feel the puff of Castiel's strained, exhausted breaths; feel a gaze that was there at least spiritually, even if the man's eyelids were shut. He was hot all over, and when Dean pushed aside a matchbook and cigarette holder, clenched his fingers around a small ring with two sharp metal things dangling from it, he pulled them out and leaned back in relief. He let the teeth of the keys bite into his palm as he curled it into a fist. "Can you walk?"

"I don't know. Maybe." Castiel scrabbled against the dirty ground and fell back. "Can't get up, though."

"Shit," Dean muttered, because that was a good way to describe the entire trip over to Castiel's home. He had expected a bitter reunion, not a broken man on the ground too hurt to even sit up right. He wished he hadn't come, but then again, what would have happened if he hadn't been around? He sighed, looped an arm across Castiel's shoulders. "If it hurts, try to bear with it, okay?" he said into Castiel's ear, a gentle edge to his voice. He eased them up, bit by bit, until Dean's knees creaked with the forced delicacy and slowness of the situation and Castiel could half support himself without wincing. Moving was still an unconquered skill, however.

It was about a thirty foot walk from the spot Castiel and Dean stood to the front door of the shop, but by the time Dean was pressing the thickest key into the store's lock and pushing it open, he felt like it had been a three mile run. They were both sweating, bumping half their bodies with each step, and for Castiel, with painful side effects, but they made it. Castiel was even able to lean on the wall without falling while Dean locked up again. There was blood on the handle, Castiel's, which had drifted onto Dean's fingers sometime in their walk. He shuttered, grabbed Castiel again, and tried to move as quickly as they could to the back room, up the staircase that was too high and too narrow, which left Dean cursing under his breath and feeling as if he was about to slip and die at least five times during their uphill trek. "Please tell me _this_ door ain't locked," he said, this time with his mouth in Castiel's hair, sweaty and smelling like the dirt of the street for obvious reasons.

"It shouldn't be." Dean reached out his hand, tried the knob, and mercifully, it turned, swung open, and bided them inside.

"Thank God," Dean said, stumbling through the doorway. The kitchen's lights were still on, and its bright glow burned Dean's eyes, made them water. He let Castiel stumble into a chair, and before the man could even settle in properly Dean was pulling at his over coat and slipping off his tie, desperate to take in the damage. "You're gonna be just fine Cas-" His ears pricked at something all of a sudden, and he turned around, hands on Castiel's chest still. Gabriel and Anna had been woken by the noise, and had appeared out of thin air, staring at the two of them.

Dean rapidly searched his mind in order to find a response to Castiel's family that wouldn't frame him as a monster.

The results weren't helpful.

Gabriel stepped forwards. "What do you think you – "

"I'm sorry." The words burst out of his mouth. He could feel Castiel shift and swallow under his hands. Dean coughed, continuing; "I found him outside, swear it."

Gabriel glared, tilting his head. He had never really held much a conversation with either Novak, and all his smooth-talking charm had been rubbed away by seeing a face from an old nightmare. He was exhausted, but he couldn't just walk out _now_, not when they thought Castiel's state was his fault.

It was Anna who spoke first, unsticking her mouth from a thin, ugly line. "That's an awful twist of fate, don't you think?"

"I'm only trying to help – "

"Maybe we didn't want your help." Her eyes flicked down to her brother, her face betraying the deep distrust of the man who brought him in. Gabriel, too, was suspicious. He didn't blame them. Hell, a good hunk of his conscience was blaming him right along with the rest of the family. The only person who seemed to have any amount of good will towards Dean at the moment was probably Castiel; sitting shut up and slumped in the wooden seat. Dean stood up and turned around, facing the pair properly. He was taller than both of them, had one of those dangerous airs around him that made it easy for people like him to be intimidating, but neither of them budged an inch, and their stares were just as trapping and penetrating as Castiel's, which he also felt, glued to his back. "Look here," he said heavily; meeting their mistrustful glowers. "Just ask him yourselves: I was heading home, half asleep, got here. I figured I'd stop by, and I found him being kicked around by Alastair and his pals."

Those were the magic words, it appeared, for Gabriel looked in wide amazement over Dean's shoulder, to his relative. "Anna," he whispered. She glanced at him, as if weighing his expression and what she needed to do in response to it; the sort of gesture good married couples could do like a hat trick.

"I'll get some ice," she muttered, moving like an apparition past the men, further into the apartment.

Gabriel sucked in a breath, his eyes on Dean again. "You know Alastair?"

"Know him? Worked for him for four of the most miserable months of my life. Hell. Complete and utter hell. Made going to Lucifer like going to a monastery. And Crowley's a vacation from that, even." He turned around in time to see Anna walk back with a few cloths and bandages, a full ice bag cutting into the skin under her arm and some ethanol in a small glass bottle, tinted brown. She had covered her nightgown up with a robe in some cold show of modesty, not that Dean would bother looking now, not with his heart rattling like a radiator with a loose screw in his ears – not with Castiel staring all bloody and broken at him like a dying fish, or a man to a god. Anna hesitantly gave him a towel, damp and reeking of the spirits and he squatted, delicately wiping blood and dirt from the tailor's face. He could see cuts appearing, and sometimes Castiel would make these great inhaling breaths to steel himself against the sting, and Dean would pause, lift up the cloth, let the other collect himself before moving again.

"I know…" Dean began, not sure if it was a message to Gabriel and Anna or Castiel or an internal admission voiced all on his own, but: "I know we aren't allowed to be friends. I know that I'm not allowed to care, or be civil. I came to your store because I had nowhere else to go, then, months ago, and I left in a bad way. But I'll be _damned_ if I just went on by while that godforsaken son of a bitch beat an innocent man to death." Castiel took another shuttering breath, sounding as unstable as Dean felt. Dean tried to smile, for the man's sake.

Behind him Gabriel said:

"You think _he's_ innocent? _Our_ family?"

Dean tried not to still his hands as he swiped down Castiel's collar, popping a few buttons to clear off more of the blood, turning sticky and dark, an odd mixture of scarlet and brown and black. It was a hue never used in paintings, it didn't have a name, perhaps couldn't even be recreated – blood had that unusually individualistic appearance, anyway. Castiel had shut his eyes again, conscious but unwilling to make a comment, perhaps in a living dream.

Perhaps unresponsive after being bashed into the wall so many times.

"It's not my business if you don't wanna share, but nothing could be worse than the things Alastair's done. And Castiel – I don't believe you. He wouldn't wish harm on anyone."

"Well of course he would. Just not on you," Gabriel countered. Dean had moved to cleaning Castiel's bloody knuckles. Turning a palm over, he had to pause, temporarily taken over by rage, catching sight of the gray pockmarks on the pads of Castiel's fingers – cigarette burns; ones he'd feel for at least two weeks. "What scummy bastard would do something like this?" he put the ice bag on Castiel's lap, making his fingers curl around it in the hope to soothe some of the pain.

"A few of our… friends," Gabriel gravely supplied, "managed to go off and kill one of Alastair's colleagues. Azazel, I think." Oh yes, Az; old yellow eyes. They said he had tinted irises from too much moonshine; half blind and vicious. Dad had been convinced – so sure that he had been one of the murderers…

Dean shook his head; it was all in the past now. "So what's the point of slaughtering a tailor in the middle of the night?"

"Tailors don't have guns." Anna said simply. "There's some bad blood between the hit men by Coney Island and up in Brownsville, do you think they care who they kill, as long as they're the right race?"

"And not even that. Fucking dirty cowards. The lot of them." Dean stood up. He leveled his gaze at the two of them once more. "I really am sorry about this."

Anna considered Dean's earnest, frank expression; she had the idea that for everything Dean was, he wasn't in fact lying, not about this. "At least you're doing something about it," she replied. She moved around the table and grabbed Gabriel's arm. "And we're… thankful, really. We'll have to tell a few of the neighbors to watch their backs. Soon, if not now. If it's not too much trouble…" Anna gestured towards her brother, and Dean nodded.

"You don't have to," Gabriel interjected, but Dean was already clutching Castiel's side, using his right arm as a hook around his neck and driving slack legs to the bedroom. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Anna whispering to Gabriel, but it was a far off concern.

He laid Castiel out on his thin mattress, bloody shirt half open. He looked too small in a bed that was already miniscule. This new visit to Castiel's room lacked the hopefulness of the first, the pleasant conversation and pale spring leaking through the window. Now everything was darker and crueler. Shadows and blood and bullets.

Just like Dean's life. As if in the five months since he had first brought himself to Castiel – first walked into his shop, into his life, whatever he did – his own time as a gangster had managed to bleed in on Castiel's preciously fragile little existence.

He believed it.

He reached over to Castiel's chest, pulling at the shirt. The sleeves slid off his shoulders and Castiel grasped Dean's arm; caught in an awkward embrace where they kept too much distance.

Dean's arms were more or less kept in place, holding the edges of the stained shirt. Castiel had his eyes wide open, and they were a bit glazed, but they focused on Dean's, so he had a clear head, at the very least.

"How are you?" Dean asked. He should have asked for a drought, something to help Castiel sleep it off. _Everything_ off. He would wake up without the memory of last night, and Dean would never return, never bring a dark stain into Castiel's home again. And the man would never be distracted by green eyes and a freckled nose, and would marry, perhaps, just like his sister and brother-in-law, to another immigrant in the neighborhood, not an Italian multiple generation mutt who was holding guns since he could walk. It seemed like an incredibly good fantasy in Dean's mind, until Castiel had the audacity to open his mouth and speak, with a voice just as scratched up and used as his body:

"I thought I'd never see you again."

Dean could feel the man's fingers, digging into the skin of his arms. "You wanted me back?"

"I don't come on to every man I meet, Dean Winchester. In fact I'd have to say you're the first – in public at least, second elsewhere. But that was an admittedly long time ago."

"Oh," Dean said. "I didn't, I thought – God, Cas, I just ran away. I'm not exactly high-standard material but even I think that's a pretty bad way to treat a guy." He let out a breath. "Especially you."

"…You were busy," Castiel ventured. "I'm told that weddings can take up a lot of time, especially if you have money to spend them on."

"You knew?"

"It was in the paper; of course I knew."

Dean reminded himself of their proximity. He was sent to put Castiel to bed; amends, if he were so lucky, could come later. "Can you take this off?" he pulled at the shirt, still hanging on by a handful of buttons. "Did they get you anywhere else?"

Castiel ducked his head, looking down at his chest; there was still crusted blood, but the cuts they actually had to worry about were the ones on his face. The rest were mostly bruises, harmless, if a large amount of scrapes, and cuts that didn't quite make through enough clothing to be a threat. He was beaten and bloody and bruised and exhausted, but he was not, in fact dying.

"I can," Castiel said, quickly unbuttoning the soiled shirt and throwing it onto the ground. He reached down, pulling off his shoes, unbuckling his trousers and letting them fall off his bed before pulling up a few blankets, draping them around his chest. His head fell back on his pillow and he winced.

Dean had been trying his best to observe the room while Castiel undressed, but still he pressed, "What hurts?"

"They, ah, they got me in the head pretty well." He rubbed a patch of dark hair, settled in again. "I'm not a child," Castiel ventured, even when, looking like he did on the bed; Dean had to bite his lips to keep from countering. "I've been through worse things; I know what it feels like when things are breaking."

"You got lucky with Alastair," Dean muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"He wasn't finished."

There was nothing. No words to say to that. Dean was choked on something, the same burst that he felt when Sam's train pulled away, his brother's face stuck out the window, getting smaller and smaller as it ran away on its track. After that he had felt many things, but they were always muted, and he was only half awake.

He reached a cautious hand over, brushing the dark strands of hair from Castiel's face, carding his fingers through it gently, over and over.

Castiel sighed, wrinkles smoothing out as his muscles twitched and fell to a relaxed state. Dean could admit to himself that Castiel looked beautiful like this; even with the cuts on his face and the dirt in his hair. And suddenly he spoke to the man on the bed, hushed and excited, feeling like he had woken up for the first time in a while. "I'll come back, Cas." He promised. And even then he thought that wasn't good enough. "Tomorrow, as soon as I'm off I'll come here. It might be late, but I'll show, alright? You can pull through a day – less than a day, probably. Just a few hours – "

"Dean." Castiel was looking at him again. Dean's fingers stilled, he pulled away, and Castiel sighed, perhaps from the loss. "You don't have to come back if you don't want to."

Dean leaned down, closer to Castiel's face. "What would you like, Castiel?"

Castiel seemed surprised at the question, as if no one had ever asked him that, before. His eyes flickered in thought. "The things I want…" he licked his lips. Hesitating. "If you would like to return on your own will, I would always love to have you, Dean."

Dean nodded, bringing his head down further, taking the hand that touched Castiel's hair and sliding it to cup his jaw with the slightest of touches. "Then we're in luck."

"We are?" Castiel was starting to get the impression that both of them must have been on the wrong side of God's wrath.

"We both want the same thing," he said to Castiel, and Dean dipped down those last precious inches and kissed him.


	11. Put Your Heart at Ease

Dean stayed true to his latest promise, and visited Castiel the next day, and the two after that. All three attempts weren't exactly made with success; Anna and Gabriel let him up to the flat, if somewhat reluctantly, and all three times Castiel was still in bed in some state of sleep. He didn't wake up, not when Dean stood over him and touched his face, and not when he gave him a small kiss on his forehead, after a moment of his vigil, before returning back down the hall and leaving the store. He wasn't sure if Castiel was ever aware of his visits, if his family would tell him, but they kept letting him inside anyway, and Dean could only wait out the days until the other man was on his feet.

It was a Tuesday when he came by for the fourth time. "Cas?" he ventured, shutting the main door. The Novak's kitchen smelled faintly of spices and coffee, lunch time just passed. "Castiel?" his bedroom was abandoned, and Dean half considered going back down the steps to see if Gabriel had been mistaken to point him up there. The gross feeling of being an intrusion came on, and Dean swayed on his feet.

There was another pair of doors past the kitchen table. He poked into one, finding a small wash room. The other was sparse, having little more than some drawn blinds, a bed and a wardrobe – Gabriel and Anna's own personal place.

On one side of the bed Castiel stooped over a waist high object, intently looking down, studiously inspecting what Dean soon saw to be a cradle, Misha stuck snugly inside. His eyes were closed, and half of his left hand was stuffed into his mouth in his sleep.

It was just a baby, Dean thought, wondering if Castiel had noticed his presence yet.

He was making wonderful progress, Castiel was: The scratches on his face were thin brown scabs, though his nose had developed a dark, purple tint, along with his right cheeks bone, making his eye a bit puffy – but there was no permanent damage – Dean knew what became of Alastair's victims, and the fact that Castiel came out of it with the ability to stand was an impressive feat, in and of itself.

Castiel, still looking down at the child, whispered, "I've been watching him more than Anna lately, cooped up as I am."

"Getting attached?"

"I've never seen a baby this fat before." Dean pursed his lips; Misha looked completely average to him, pillowy cheeks and thick fingers. Castiel squeezed out from between the bed and the cradle and Dean, disappearing into the hallway where the light was streaming through one lonely window. "Anyway," he continued, as Dean followed out behind, softly shutting the door, "I just wanted to make sure he was asleep. Is Gabriel still in the shop?"

"When I walked in a minute ago. Why? Does he have a tendency to walk off?"

Castiel quirked his lips. "We have friends that are very good at _dragging_ him off. Would you like something to drink?"

"Got any coffee left over?"

"Sure."

He poured the both of them a small cup from a stony looking kettle sitting on the stove. Dean accepted his, already reaching in his pocket for a cigarette.

The cups were put on the table with a gentle _clink_, and Castiel went back to the cupboards, pulling out a novel-sized box and settling down with it across from Dean. Dean raised his brows, arms neatly resting on the red and white checkered cloth.

"You reminded me to make some more," Castiel said simply, flipping open the box's catch and taking out a small packet of tobacco and rolling papers.

Dean contented himself in watching Castiel work with his hands, balancing between sipping dark coffee and taking leisurely drags from his smoke, never straying from the other man's work.

Dean had, in all but the rarest situations, held a special loathing for silence. He took quiet as a time for waiting – and waiting was usually accompanied with apprehension. Waiting for bad news, waiting for something to go wrong; waiting meant he had less than total control and less control had always been filed under 'Bad' in Dean's books.

But now Dean really had nothing to say; usually he could make a grab for all the right words in a business arrangement, on a date, or with bystanders cramped next to him on the street. He had a few things he wanted to ask Castiel, but they all seemed too distant now. Usually he'd be twitching in his seat by now. But instead he sat at the Novak's kitchen table with a drink and didn't feel an ounce of trepidation bubbling forth. There was the fascination of watching Castiel and some measure of desire to be able to have quiet moments like this always and all the time, but mostly, he just watched.

Castiel's bag of tobacco was thin cut, reminding Dean of the loose teas the Orients pedaled around up in Canal Street. He lined a bit on the skins and rolled them quickly, licking them shut. He had made seven in the few minutes Dean had been lazily watching, and just as his cigarette dissolved into mostly ash and filter, stuck in the tray left in the middle of the round table, Castiel frowned down at his set and carefully stood.

"I need my case," he supplied by way of explanation. He moved down the hall, into his bedroom, and shut the door. Dean waited a moment; drained the strong coffee, wondering plainly about the pacifying effect Castiel gave him, and followed the other man's path.

Castiel had been lying.

Not expressly, since the titanium cigarette case, banged up but polished enough to be reflective, sat on his bed, but that wasn't the express reason why he had gone into his room. He had unbuttoned his vest and shirt, laying them on the bedspread so that he might look down and examine his lacerations. Against the wall there was a mirror, two feet tall against a spare, scratched chair, one that wouldn't be missed much as it served a temporary purpose of a mending station; water bowl and set of rags and medicinal alcohol spread out beside it.

The last time Dean had seen Castiel half dressed he had been bleeding; before that he had fallen ill. There was that sickening connection in Dean's mind made, between his showing up and Castiel' suffering.

He nudged the door open. It creaked, and Castiel heard it for once. He turned around. "You ought to shut this," Dean said softly, rapping on the white painted wood. "Don't know who might come in, otherwise."

Dean was beginning to think that Castiel had a pre-requisite for soul-staring, because they froze in place for a while, like bugs in amber, until Castiel broke the effect by looking elsewhere. His shoulders betrayed his humanity, bunched by emotional pressure.

"I thought maybe you'd have the decency to stay put for a minute, but I should have known better."

Dean tried not to wince. "…You're healing pretty good," he supplied in the way of uneasy silence. "Real good."

Castiel looked down at the mesh of lacerations and bruises on his skin; Dean knew Castiel was healing well, but that didn't mean he necessarily looked pretty. The paleness of his flesh was the demented canvas for purple finger marks on his throat, and yellowing, organic shaped bruises on his chest and gut, a few stray marks were red and pink, raised lines from a knife point or nails; broken glass he was kicked into, maybe. Under that were some old mars, and arcane scars, silver accent marks to his painting, much older than last week, perhaps even before he immigrated. He looked back up at Dean with a dark emotion on his face. "Really." He said.

Dean came closer, "Calm down, Cas, I ain't pulling you or nothing. No need to act like you're the only one who's gotten broken up like this." Castiel still kept on with the look, so Dean went, "Here," and figured he might as well show him.

The jacket came off first, thrown on the mattress. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his vest, and undid his shirt halfway to show some scattered marks. He grinned when he saw Castiel's face lighten a bit, in sympathy or show of skin, or both. There was always some sense of pride Dean took in his injuries; he had to, he figured; to own them, turn each one into a story to tell his brother, some girl, to impress or offer some form of camaraderie.

He only had two indents of bullet marks on his entire body; more scratches than anything. He made a gesture at one on the corner of his shoulder and said by way of explanation, "I got this when I was a kid. Trespassing on Mr. Hansey's farm down in Missouri. I bet Sam that we could get some honey comb from the nest he kept at the side of the house. He tried to shoot at us with an air rifle; scared me so bad I fell against a scythe."

"Hardly seems like a fun time," Castiel countered, because Dean certainly looked like he was enjoying himself. In truth it was one of Dean's fonder memories that left a mark. That summer had been a miserably hot one, and he and his brother had spent most of it being blissfully childish; not much work to be found in the little town they were holed up in. Castiel sat down on the bed, Dean came closer, hands in his trouser pockets.

"Nah, it was a great time. Gave my brother a fit, too. And then this bear of a guy starts talking, and running seems as good an idea as any, 'cept I think I'm bleeding everything out of this little knick on my arm, and Mr. Hansey turns on the porch light and stares real mean at Sam and me, and then he asks if we're hungry.

"Turns out, he was looking for some neighbor's kids that kept on killing his chickens. We didn't do any of that, we were just bored and yeah, hungry, too."

"So he fed you?" Dean shrugged in affirmation, feeling particularly proud of himself.

"Ever have fresh honeycomb? The hard part squeaks in your teeth. Real loud." Castiel looked down and shook his head; no, he hadn't, never had the pleasure, he probably wouldn't at any rate, so don't feel bad.

Too late, a guilt was burning Dean up; his plan to sooth Castiel backfiring when they both came to see how alien they sometimes were to one another. The past wasn't a safe place for them to dwell, and without the protective film of nostalgia what could they talk about?

Dean supposed that he was never that skilled when it came to meaningful conversations, at any rate. He straightened up, wiping at his mouth, trying to think of what to say next. Castiel made a grab for his free hand and pulled it from Dean's pocket, clutching it as if Dean was about to leave him too soon.

Dean had no intention of heading out, and their gazes matched, watched, waited and waited for _something_… did Castiel want an assurance? Dean didn't know what he was supposed to do, what Castiel _wanted_ him to do, but in his experience, instinctual actions never really let him down.

He stooped a bit, pressing himself closer to Castiel until he was nearly falling into him, feet no longer supporting his weight as he set himself in his lap, chin jutting on Castiel's shoulder.

"You're fine Cas, you are." He felt slow arms shift and go around his waist; loose, then tight, drifting down to his hips, then higher, unsure where he was meant to put them. Dean didn't correct Castiel, closing his eyes for a moment and listening to the quick pulse thrumming in Castiel's chest; the silence of their embrace mixing with the sounds of normal life outside. _I could get used to this,_ he thought. There were rough hands threading on his back. Now the rubbing motions felt less self-conscious and a lot more deliberate.

Dean had his jacket was off and his vest was undone, but his suspenders, he hadn't bothered to unfasten, nor did he untuck his shirt. Still, Castiel's fingers touched against the vest's hems, the joints of his thumb forefinger cinching the space just above Dean's hips. He leaned up to warmly whisper, "I don't mind…" into Castiel's ear, and felt warm palms going under the fabric, another layer closer to his skin. Dean dragged his head back and kissed Castiel on the mouth, fingers rubbing into his scalp, another hand drifting down to trail his spine. There was warmth and pressure so that Dean almost felt pained to pull back again, leaning his forehead against Castiel's, dragging his hand down so it went from Castiel's hair to the back of his neck.

He hardly had the chance to look at Castiel – take in his blue eyes, blown to smithereens with a base sense of want; dry lips on their way from unassuming pink to a ruinous scarlet; that stubble on his cheeks from spare days not needing to make an appearance in his shop. Dean could have done that forever, just observe, but Castiel made a gasping, desperate, _hungry_ noise, pressing so hard against Dean's back that their lips crushed down together once more, as if Castiel was choking on the air around him, and the only way to survive was lost somewhere between Dean's teeth. Dean could have laughed at the idea, would have in most cases, but this was _Castiel_, and somehow, that made all the difference.

They were doing a rather awful job of being inconspicuous; breathing hard and constantly shifting, in a half-desire to get some sort of friction in their laps – as if they were climbing towards something.

Another flurried breakaway brought even more disappointed gasps and groans, until once Dean pressed forward too hard in his earnestness and Castiel's posture gave out, sending them both sprawling onto the bed and knocking Castiel's head against the wall.

"Sorry, sorry," Dean breathed out, but Castiel was grinning anyway, not hurt and not minded. Dean bent over and kissed his neck, brushing more warm skin as the other's pulse got harder and faster. He started to roll off of him when Castiel gripped his shoulders tight and made a red ring of kisses and bites below Dean's collar bone, forcing the other to prop himself up until his arms shook from the effort. Shaky minutes passed until finally Castiel stopped, impulsively, as if suddenly deciding that _this_ amount of love bites and bruises was sufficient, before giving Dean one more finishing kiss on his darkly tinted mouth and laid back down, hands flat on his stomach, looking up at Dean like watching him was comparable to star gazing.

Dean shifted so that his arms weren't protesting so much. "I liked that," he murmured fondly, brushing away some rebellious strand of hair from Castiel's forehead.

"That makes two of us," Castiel's eyelids slipped closed for a moment in thought. "You don't want to…?"

He'd be lying if he said his trousers didn't feel constrictive and his body way too hot, but he didn't mind, affection making him complacent; willing to wait. "I don't mind." He was happy enough to see Castiel's frail smile peak out from his neutral expression.

"We could do this all the time," he tantalized. "If you just lived closer." Dean felt a surprised jolt go through him, and he tightened his fists, twisting them into the bed sheets. He smirked.

"I uh, I might be closer than you think."

"You moved?"

"It's been longer of a while for me than you," Dean felt it, the twinge in his heart that came with thinking of Sam, miles away and doing what, he had no concept. Being cut off from his brother was the worst lows he could have hit, so he had learnt to accept the sorry pain of missing something he had so long been convinced he couldn't live without.

But here, in Castiel's grip, it hurt a little less. He knew Castiel would understand the feeling, probably experiencing it firsthand himself. It was a weight lifted off his shoulders, and he kept waiting for a new guilt to come, like with his usual coping habits, but none arrived, marking their place as a lump in the back of his throat.

Just as he was about to speak again, he saw Castiel's eyes grow wide, his body tensing.

Listening, Dean heard it, too.

Footsteps, going _tap, tap, tap_ on the stairs below.

They locked eyes, breath caught in their windpipes for one second, before they leapt up in a flurry of movement, pulling on clothes and smoothing themselves and desperately trying to gauge how much time they had to spare. Dean gestured hastily to the kitchen as Castiel buttoned his shirt, and he just managed to drop down in his chair, adjusting his tie and patting down the part in his hair when Anna walked in, bags filling up her arms.

"Oh," she said, rolling her eyes around the room, trying to inspect the impurities that may have occurred in her absence. She tagged the two empty coffee cups and open tobacco box in front of Dean. "Hello. Were you with Castiel?"

"Yeah. He, uh, he had to get something, he said," he waved over to the general direction of the man's bedroom as he practically jumped out of his seat. "Can I help you with those?" Anna looked at the paper bags and nodded.

"Sure, just this one." She awkwardly shifted one of the bags over to Dean's arms, setting the rest of them on the counter. Dean moved over to the icebox, a pale color with shiny metal hinges. He rifled through the bag and pushed in the typical things; milk and cream, butter, eggs, a package of salted ham. Behind him, he could hear drawers opening, the gentle tinking of other objects as Anna put them away. Just as Dean managed to stop twitching in the fear that he had been found out, he caught Castiel slipping into the area.

At first, Dean worried that the exchange between them hadn't even happened at all; which meant different things. Whether or not his chest was still covered in love bites didn't mean that either of them would ever acknowledge such a thing occurred between them. Dean was sort of used to that type of secrecy when it came to those he'd spent a night with. Castiel might have been the same, until he sent him that same contented smile – the one that was more like a shadow of curved lips, leaving much more definition around the crinkled lines around his eyes. It easily displayed affection and then impishness attained from sharing a secret in plain sight, and it came as a relief.

Dean suddenly felt very young; some unknown, subjective age where kissing was an alien concept, observed but never understood, and holding hands caused a ripple in whatever commune of children one spent their time. He felt elation like that, though admittedly far from innocent.

His reaction was such that he suddenly interjected. "I… I came by again to make sure Cas was doing all right."

Anna looked at her brother. "Well, he's out of bed, at least."

Dean went on. "I thought, maybe, to cheer him up, at least, try to make things better, I'd bring him to a party in a few days, when he was looking right again, of course. If he was up to it."

Anna slowly ambled around the kitchen, still checking that everything remained to her liking. She poked a salt shaker into place between the pepper and sugar bowl so they were all lined up against the wall, arranged like a condiment execution via firing squad. To Dean, at least.

Anna and Gabriel had an uncanny ability to make him mightily worried about nothing, and he wondered if, after Alastair, they had tried to convince Castiel not to see him again.

But she merely inquired, "A party?" And Dean tasted the apprehension; thick and vile as it went down his throat.

"One of those sorts. Bosses have them. Class ones, at least. I've been to plenty, and Crowley always extends a hand, tells me to bring dates, friends…" Castiel tilted his head, and if the man had to wonder if he was one or the other Dean would have to just show him all over again.

"Where?"

"Oh, some hotel 'round here. Crowley's a fan of Coney Island. I can bring him, make sure he gets home in one piece." Anna looked onto her brother again, and judging by Castiel's unwillingness to meet her gaze, she probably knew more than they had assumed. Dean contemplated if Castiel's disregard for religious dogma when it came to their sort of relationships was a quality shared by the rest of his family. Dean had always kept his affairs incredibly private; no one but him and the other guy knew; _Sam_ wasn't even aware – and if he had ever been inclined to think that Dean was interested in anything but women, he hadn't asked, but since when did Sam _not_ inquire about… anything?

Still, all Anna did was ask if there would be drinks.

Dean laughed. "Hardly a party without it." Anna hummed in a deprecating way.

"I'm not Castiel's mother," she said finally. "He's allowed to do whatever he wants." Her eyes had never strayed from Castiel. "I'm sure Gabriel would say the same thing. Whatever makes you happy."

"Thank-you, Anna." Castiel bowed his head slightly.

"Yes, well," she crossed the room, presumably on her way to check on Misha. She paused to stand by Dean for a moment. "One thing to say for him, he _did_ always pay you on time." She went through the darkness of her bedroom and closed the door. Puzzled, Dean turned to Castiel to ask him what _that_ had meant, but the tailor was upon him again, letting Dean step back until there was no room left and he was being kissed, thighs pressed against the edge of the table.

He dragged Castiel back by the shoulders, holding him tightly in place. "She's right _there_ – " he hissed out.

"Why do you think she left the room?" Dean deflated.

"She knows about you?"

"She knows about us." Dean's lips twitched up at the last word involuntarily.

"Explains the odd talk you two just had." He looked over his shoulder at the bedroom door, still closed.

"We're all used to privacy, when we can get it."

"Not personal space, though."

Castiel ignored that jab as he dragged his knuckles across Dean's face, letting Dean slowly turn his attention back to him. "She didn't want to embarrass you, probably. But I think you can handle it."

"I can handle anything you throw at me," Dean said with joking bravado.

"I hope so," Castiel replied. "When can we go?"

Dean took in Castiel's faded injuries. Most of his lasting marks were on his body, which obviously wouldn't be exposed. His face was healing rapidly, too. "Next Saturday, Crowley should have something. You can show me that you're decent at cards." Castiel cocked his head.

"I'll need a hat."

"I'll _buy_ you a hat."

Castiel looked unsure. "They'll let a Russian in?"

"If you're with me."

A pause. Then: "You won't abandon me at the last minute, right?" Dean could understand that; you don't get something for nothing. Never mind that Castiel had been the only thing worth smiling about for a while; or that he'd gladly hold the man above his head and proclaim Castiel perfect and his if he could.

But he felt embarrassed enough _thinking_ that; of course voicing such a thing was out of the question. "I promise that I'll drag you out with me to have some fun, no matter how _embarrassed_ you get."

Castiel frowned. "I won't be embarrassed."

"Of course not." Dean brushed his nose against Castiel's cheek before kissing him, long and deep. I'll come back soon, okay?"

Castiel, fingers still trailing Dean's jaw, nodded. "Of course. I'll be waiting." They disentangled themselves and Dean crossed across the apartment. "Goodbye, Dean."

As Dean descended down the apartment steps he thought, that in all the joys in the world, there was rarely something quite as nice as knowing that someone would be waiting for you.


	12. Saturday Night at the Capitol Hotel

In the time leading up to the party, Dean still insisted on visiting Castiel every day he could manage. He gave the Novaks several days of reprieve, but if Gabriel and Anna were relieved, Castiel was only getting addicted to Dean's presence. One of his new favorite things was to press Dean up against a wall or some other fixture and kiss the breath out of him. Of course Dean didn't mind. Not as he dug his hands into the dark roots of Castiel's hair and sucked marks into his collar, hidden enough that it would only be seen by the two of them.

When they talked Dean never found his attention straying. Even the menial, platonic things were enjoyable. He would ask Castiel about his day and try to keep track of the mild gossip and the names of the Novak's customers. When nothing seemed eventful, he'd prod Castiel to say something of interest, and perhaps he'd get an old anecdote or an update of a novel Castiel had been reading. Once he made a gesture to a tome of Greek anthology and remarked Dean as an Apollo, and Dean laughed and reprimanded him for being too girlishly romantic, even while threading their fingers together and kissing Castiel's hand, sitting on the floor of the man's bedroom like they were nothing more than children themselves.

Now Dean was partway between Crowley's setting of choice and Castiel's shop, waiting for the other man to show up. He had suggested getting to the party sometime after it got dark, and nine o' clock sounded good enough for the both of them. He was up against the wall of a building on Surf Avenue, overlooking the direction Castiel would be coming from. The summer night felt warm and sticky against his hands, partly because he was so close to the sea; and no matter how many cigarettes he went through as he waited for Castiel to show up, Dean couldn't say he felt relaxed.

His original plan was to introduce Castiel around to the nicer attendees. Perhaps, in a way, show off the man who had managed to garner so much of his own attention – Dean found it a mystery why Castiel was more of a shut in than the rest of his family. The man was a stoic, but he _was_ Russian – and if he actually managed to be piqued of someone's interest, he could say some of the damndest things.

A low whistle drifted through the salty air, Dean raised his head and saw a trio of men ambling down the street. One of them carrying a tune.

He caught sight of a tan overcoat and waved with the hand still not wrapped around his cigarette. He tossed it down and crunched it on the gravel a moment later, striding up to meet the group. "Hey, Cas." He reached out to grab the man's hand, an involuntary gesture. Castiel contemplated it for a moment, as if thinking about how to proceed, before shaking. To his right, Gabriel stood, more transfixed on the buildings than their exchange. He had been whistling, though now he had moved on to tapping some rhythm with his foot. To the right, there was a man that had Dean squinting, as if he had seen him before but couldn't place it.

"Bring a friend?" Dean said lightly.

The man spoke. "We have a habit of going around in groups, now. I'm sure you have an idea why." Castiel gave him a side glance, just as Dean's offertory hand went limp against his side.

"This is Balthazar. Balthazar, this is – "

"Your _friend_, the magnificent Dean Winchester." Balthazar gave him an appraising look; he had a sort of affable, exotic flare, though the last and only time Dean had seen the man was a mere passing, where he observed a customer only fluent in Russian. Despite their limited acquaintance Dean couldn't exactly call himself a fan, not to mention that glancing down he swore he could see the strap of a holster poking out of the man's jacket. Judging by the thickness of the tie holding it in place, it was probably as big as he could manage without being a straight-up Tommy Gun.

The guy might have worked with some Russian gang, but if he was anyone of notice Dean probably would have recognized him. It still made his skin crawl.

After a while of awkwardly standing together, Balthazar caught Gabriel's eye and nodded with some sense of finality. "Well then," he clapped Dean on the shoulder before turning around. "It's been wonderful meeting you; please _do_ bring Castiel back in one piece, not like last time, alright?"

"Balthazar." Castiel said in a warning tone.

"We're going, we're going, though if a fight breaks out, try to not get killed," Gabriel offered, giving a slight push to lead Balthazar back they way they had come. Dean managed to catch something more of a humorous look in his face – perhaps Gabriel wasn't as serious as he had thought.

"Have a nice night as well, Gabriel." Castiel said back. Before they were totally out of reach Balthazar took the dark Homburg he was wearing and clapped it on Castiel's head – Castiel did mention that he'd be able to borrow a hat, sometime last week – at least the gangster was good for something.

The two Russian men hadn't even totally faded down the street when Dean saw the Balthazar lean to Castiel's brother-in-law, already sharing his most-likely low opinions of the man Castiel had chosen to associate himself with.

Dean sucked in a breath and restrained himself from getting out another smoke. Instead he looked over at Castiel. "I don't think he's crazy about me."

Castiel looked over his shoulder, as if he had forgotten who had escorted him to the street in the first place. "Balthazar and I are childhood friends. He is a bit… difficult, at times. I'd say he just coddles me more than anyone else does. It's all for the best, I suppose." Dean turned towards Castiel and they began to amble down the street.

"Not for nothing Cas, but what sort of trouble could a guy like you get into?"

"The sort that Balthazar himself gets in, I presume. He has my better interests at heart. I'll make sure to speak with him about you, if that would help."

"If you could get that 'Holier than Thou' look off of him that might help, yeah." Dean paused. "You guys, uh, you all really go around in packs now?"

Castiel's shoulders twitched. "It's not the first time our neighborhood has attracted unwanted visitors. Sometimes the neighborhood collects watchmen to make sure the streets are clear of vandals or older children who like to make a nuisance of themselves; we're used to it. Everything will settle down in a few weeks, I assume."

"Yeah," Dean muttered, already feeling at ease. In all honesty walking down a near-empty street with Castiel was more serene than an entire crate of _Camels._ In an effort to change the subject he ventured, "How's the suit?"

Castiel looked down at it, as if just realizing the change of costume. "It's not the worst thing I've worn, though the jacket is a bit stiff." It was a charcoal colored jacket, with a murky pinstriped dress shirt and a striped, scarlet tie; Dean could see the handkerchief sticking out of his breast pocket was the same dark red. The dim tones made him look more imposing than the simple dress shirt or vest he usually wore, the shoulders of his suit padded to give his stature extra weight where his actual body couldn't. All in all it was an impressive look. And almost unprecedentedly well pulled together.

"I won't lie; I almost thought you'd show up with some brown colored monster. And a lime green shirt, maybe."

"I'm a tailor, Dean. Most of my job is making sure other people look good."

"But you kept the trench coat."

"I like the trench coat."

"Suit yourself,"

Castiel's hand moved up to sweep at his hair before putting his borrowed hat back in place. It was that same not-quite black, so at least it matched with the rest of the ensemble. "You also seem capable of dressing yourself," there was enough warmth in Castiel's teasing words to make Dean stare down at the ground. He had on the typical evening wear fare; a white shirt, checked tie, and a suit jacket that just managed to get a navy hue attached to it.

"Apparently," Dean said back. "I think you'd look good in blue, though." Dean clenched his jaw then, hoping nothing else revealing would slip out.

Castiel carried on as if Dean wasn't mortified by the flirtation. "Anna said the same thing before I left; the both of us tend to look good in cooler shades. It plays to our best features." Dean could feel Castiel's cursory gaze on the side of his face.

"Yeah, I bet." He tried to laugh.

"I can wear it more often, if you wish."

"You can wear whatever you want, so long as it's not crazy." In a desperate attempt to get conversation on less awkward grounds, he said, "Oh, and just a fair warning, someone might make you play poker."

"And by someone you mean you, correct?"

"If I can get to you first, yeah. If it's a betting round I can cover you. And if someone tries to drink you under the table… I would say leave 'em to fall all over themselves. Or can you handle those sorts of things?" Castiel shrugged again.

"I've abstained for so long I couldn't tell you," he admitted. He pointed down the street. "Is that the place?" Dean looked over the familiar road to the grand, lit up building. Six stories of golden fairy lights and red curtains. The building was a stony monster, new and not yet showing the strain of well-use. Against the shore, it seemed impervious to the fog and salty air like a few of the crumbling buildings around it, almost like a permanent fixture that had always and would always be there, even though Dean himself could distinctly remember a time when construction cranes and day laborers littered just a large patch of foundation and concrete.

A few cars were parking themselves outside, slowly making a parade of people. He and Castiel were just out of that condensed range, and up ahead there were at least a dozen men and women ambling ahead of them. Off-the-book funding and a long list of chic attendees turned the glorified speakeasy into a type of palace, though it was less focused on Kings and Queens and more so with booze, gambling, and all the usual vices of the common man.

"That's it," Dean said, nodding his head in approval. "That's the Capitol Hotel."

**xxxx**

It didn't take long for the two of them to make their way inside. In the lobby there had been a coat room where he and Castiel had shucked their fedoras and outer layers before going to stand by a large, muscle bound man who had quickly waved them into a carpeted stairwell, while behind them a growing queue of other hopeful partygoers watched their backs disappear down the steps, and into the ridiculously spacious basement. Well, perhaps _basement_ wasn't the exact word to be used in their case. Despite the level of the club being underground and possessing no windows, a basement implied something subpar; second rate. The only thing separating the likes of Capitol's speakeasy and the Buckingham Palace was that their juice joint had a slightly lower ceiling.

As the two of them descended into the bar, they could hear at least three basses strumming along in a warm-up beat. To Dean's knowledge, Crowley was the only man to formally put on any events in the place. It was definitely his money that had paid for the renovations to be done – to his liking, of course – which probably came about through some unnamed, 'anonymous' donation to the hotel, not noted in the papers, a liquor license approval, and a long list of bribed officers employed in the area. With all that in place Crowley's word quickly became the law of the land.

The lounge stretched for what felt to be half a city block, everything swathed in scarlet. Dean never missed the mental joke of going down into an underground, fiery lair, but it was all in good fun; nothing hellish here. Just hundreds of tables, seats and booths, a center stage and three large bench bars surrounding the corners of the floor. Low lights hung around the cozy, cushioned tables, while stage lights buzzed around the orchestra pit, dance floors, and bottles of liquor, some of which costing more than what the Novak family could make in six months. Even without it being filled to the brim with other people – it was only nine o' clock, after all – it had no trouble rendering Castiel speechless.

Dean had always been invited to these sorts of places; ever since he had started working for Lucifer, they drew him in too, at first. Mystifying him with their almost offensive level of ritziness; of wealth and the sheer amount the rich could spend their hardly-earned cash on. Now, not so shy in the dough department himself, he felt at home in the area, and though he could have just taken Castiel to another place, dustier, quieter, and not so much a "secret" as this place than just plain old unknown, he saw the man's eyes glint under the chandeliers and knew that he had introduced the other into a whole other world; one that probably came straight from the fantastical stories he kept by his bed at home.

Castiel was moving along the combination of carpet and polished wood flooring, lips parted in awe. Dean leaned in towards his ear. "You'll catch flies like that," and Castiel slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes not quite sure what to take in first.

A gaggle of women quickly caught their attention. They stumbled forward, makeup already smeared, the drinks in their hands sloshing around enough that Dean could find the sweet scent of honey mixed in somewhere besides their perfumes; adding that was a new fangled trick to mask the smell and taste of whisky. A few winked at him, or maybe Castiel, and he nodded back to them and smirked, sending them reeling and laughing again. The group wandered forward a bit, pausing on occasion to adjust a shoe strap or take a long draw from their glasses or lift their skirts up to their thighs. A few got taken back to the dance floor by other, less preoccupied guys, and at least one of the remaining girls was seen letting a shoulder strap droop in a tantalizing way, hoping to elicit a free refill or another spin to the near nonexistent music.

Dean let a grin split his face; watching drunk people never stopped being funny to him. Though when he turned back to usher Castiel through the rapidly rising crowds, he saw the man's face bore into his own, even paler than usual.

"What is it?" Dean asked. In the distance he could hear an announcer cough into the microphone, about to let the opening band start up.

"_Where did you bring me?_" Castiel said, looking scandalized by something. Dean furrowed his brows as he tried to comprehend what had made Castiel go from mystified to terrorized.

"Just a club, Cas."

"Seems closer to a… a den of iniquity."

Dean thought back to the women and tried to not look too amused by his friend's shock. "A good drink does that to everyone; sorry, I forgot that some people still have some sense of shame left. I thought you were used to card games and spifflicated crowds."

"Yes, well, the women had, um,"

"Clothes?" Dean added helpfully.

"And I was playing with barbaric creatures, but I expected something less base and carnal here…"

"Put a monkey in a jacket and he's still a monkey," A raspy voice said. The man siddled up next to the pair, and Dean saw that it was Crowley, in the flesh. Dean hoped to god it was just a crap coincidence that Castiel was stuck eyeing his boss. "Care to try a game at my table?" Dean paled; he hadn't expected that. He had been to Crowley's affairs once, but it had been clear that he kept himself with a ring of upper cut gentlemen, sitting at a large round table, drinking and talking like they were at a country club instead of a grand party. "Of course your escort can come, too." Castiel glanced at Dean, trying to search out an explanation, a guide of what to do. Dean couldn't help, or offer any advice in return; all he could do was lead Castiel through the crowd to the table. The setup had the usual faces of graying men radiating power and influence everywhere from their stare to their pocket watches. Dean flashed them a nervous set of teeth, pushing on Castiel's shoulder to get him to sit in one of the upholstered chairs.

Crowley drew official attention to them with an almost dismissively casual gesture. "This is one of my newest up and coming, gentlemen. And you are?"

Castiel, who had been giving Dean a wide-eyed glare that described both confusion, anxiety, and an anger that came with mentally blaming Dean for the predicament they were currently placed in, was able to instead look up at Crowley. "Castiel," he said, in a particularly formal tone.

"Does Castiel have a last name?" one of the men across the table asked. A handful of his surrounding companions smiled at the joke. Castiel's gaze slowly turned to them, and there might have been some insulted look there, but knowing Castiel's tendencies for social faux pas it was more likely an honestly confused expression, as to why what the other said was entertaining. The partygoers soon looked away, intimidated at the thousand yard stare.

"…Novak," he offered up after some time, and a quick prod from Dean's elbow. A high speed swing number had just come to a close, and Dean could recognize the smoky voice of a good jazz singer in its place. One that made even the deepness of his and Castiel's voice seem effeminate. There was the subtle introduction from a drumset and no more than two guitars, a cello, and a piano. Around them the noise of the club became muted – as quiet as they could ever hope to get. Dean soon made out the song as _'Jesus Make up my Dying Bed'_; it wasn't a favorite, but he hadn't heard it for a good year and it made an almost welcome return to his ears. The original track had been much simpler than the atmosphere of the club would allow; something that hailed memories of a back porch looking out on some swamp in Louisiana Land somewhere way down South. Back to a simpler time.

In a way it calmed him down. Grounded him.

This wasn't the way he wanted the night to go; it was what he deserved, he guessed. If he wanted to make Castiel a shiny new trinket for the boys, then Fate could only put some cruel twist on his ideas and make them both playthings for the Men. With any luck they'd come out of it in a few hours, and Dean could grovel and kiss Castiel until he let him take him for a better outing at someplace less fancy.

But until then Dean sucked in a breath and smiled. This time it was long and wide, as smooth as the beat thrumming against the walls of the place.

"What's the game?" he asked, already reaching for his wallet.

**xxxx**

The _Gentlemen_, as it were, had a preference for turning anything into some sort of battle of wits. That resulted in a community card game of poker, its differences negligible between many other types; there were four betting rounds, aces high, Jokers out, that sort of thing. He and Castiel were made the stationary small blinds, exempting them from paying in hundreds on the first round, though Castiel's mask betrayed some more shock at finding how truly dispensable money was. Even as Dean paid in for him and Castiel, he received the same sort of look. Crowley became the dealer first round, naturally. Though because of how they were sitting, Castiel would be able to deal on the last round. _Hooray for small miracles_, Dean thought.

Crowley put down a six of hearts, and a ten and King of Spades.

A waiter came around not long after. Most of Crowley's friends had their own drinks set. Dean longed for something to take the edge off his nerves. "Two Scotch on rocks," he said. He turned towards Castiel, who was still silently contemplating the pair of cards that made up his hand. "You want anything?"

Castiel put the cards face down on the table. "Same, I suppose."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Alright," Dean held up four fingers and the waiter disappeared back into the crowd.

"Hard drinker, eh?" Someone else said. He had slicked, black hair, looked to be in his late thirties. Dean vaguely attached the guy to a prestigious stockholder position; his picture might have appeared in the paper a few times for it. Well, most of the guys Dean couldn't quite name; but they were all from varied places, Dean noticed. Rich, worldly men, mostly Italian, but they all held massive reigns over different enterprises in the city; a few were owners of hotel chains, some were investors, bankers, and they were all looking at Dean and Castiel in a way that made him feel as if he were watching a pack of caged lions from the wrong side of the bars.

Castiel blinked once, slowly. "Couldn't say. I haven't had anything since I emigrated here."

"So what, a week then, huh?" More laughing travelled around the table. The group finished throwing their bets in and Crowley slid the deck to the guy next to him, a thin, blonde gentleman.

Castiel waited for the man to lay down the Turn – an Ace of Spades. Two men quietly folded on notice, staring worriedly at their pairs of cards and sliding their chairs back a few inches. Castiel let his gaze go carefully across the table, staring at the remaining six men playing. Dean, the seventh, got something a bit gentler. Not breaking face, but it was more passive than the scrutiny he gave everyone else.

Dean, too stupid to focus at the intense look, felt his mouth twitch in a smile.

Castiel slowly turned back to the man from Wall Street. "I am sure that most off-the-boat Russians lack the capability to play American originated card games, or speak fluent English." Just then the waiter came back and handed some men long cigars, and Dean and Castiel their drinks.

Castiel took a sip of one. Paused, sniffed the concoction, then knocked it back without a flinch. "But I'm sure you were just joking, of course." He studied the cards for another second before nudging Dean's side. Dean, impressed at both the quick drink and the quick wit Castiel commanded, wordlessly handed him forty dollars. "Thank you," he said sincerely, turning back and dropping it on the pot.

"Cute," the investor said, chewing the end of his smoke.

The blonde man to the left of Castiel continued to lazily shuffle the cards. He turned and gave Castiel a predatory smile that made Dean's blood simultaneously boil and freeze. He downed half his glass as a distraction. "I wouldn't say _cute_, Toce."

Toce, as the man was apparently called, raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what would you call him, Arturi?"

Arturi grinned. "He's got almost as big a mouth as you. Funny. Know any other jokes, Cas?"

"Castiel." The man patiently corrected. He downed the second glass of scotch without so much of a blink of an eye.

"_Jesus_," Dean muttered, sitting back and cradling his first drink as if it was the only safety he had in the world. The bar felt too stuffy; the music had grown incredibly loud in the last few minutes and he could feel a vein in his forehead throbbing. He probably looked like he was about to fold, but really he was more worried about what the guys would do to Castiel. Or worse, what Castiel might manage to do to them. He had never seen such cold detachment on the man before. Not even when they first met. It was… surprising. Scary, really. A whole other side coming out of the guy.

"Well, Castiel said. "There was an allegory from home, I suppose."

"Oh?" another guy said, feigning disinterest. Castiel watched him for a moment, but it seemed that a long while had passed between rounds, because a waiter came back and the men were demanding more smokes and an ash tray to go along with that. Dean made a vain attempt to gesture at Castiel, ask him if he wanted something, but Castiel was calling it without even a glance. Same order as before. Something had set him off; not that Dean could blame him. If there was a list of all the things rich, Italian New Yorkers hated, well, a lippy Russian who seemed to be doing pretty well at their table must have been pretty high up there. Dean tried to fight down the choking isolation as Castiel didn't even look at him – he had his own things to prove.

Far away, another man folded out of the game. Two more called the bet, eyes darting around, watching. Dean did the same; he himself had a nine of Spades and a Queen of Hearts, at the very least he wouldn't have the lowest hand in the end. He couldn't tell if Castiel was confident or nervous about his own draw.

As the rest of the players looked around and put their money down, Castiel opened his mouth. "Well, there's this Hare."

"Like a rabbit or like the stuff on your head?" Arturi asked.

Castiel licked his lips. "A rabbit. And he runs like crazy through a forest and meets the Wolf."

Arturi snuffed out the cigar he had been smoking. It was only half finished. "This can only end well." He offered in a deprecating way.

"The Wolf asks: 'What's the matter? Why such haste?', and the _rabbit_ says, 'The camels there are caught and shod!' So the Wolf says: 'But you're not a camel!'" Castiel quirked his mouth in a way that could possibly be seen as amusement. Dean wasn't exactly busting his sides, though. "'Hey,', the rabbit goes, 'after you are caught and shod, just you try and prove them that you are not a camel!'"

There was only the sound of Dean downing his second glass of whiskey in an attempt to drown out the silence.

It didn't help.

He heard Castiel faintly respond to the lack of response by going, "It's… funnier in Russian, I suppose."

"…Moving right along," Crowley said to the group. And then sound came rushing back into Dean's ears. He noticed Castiel shuffling the cards in brisk movements, trying not to reveal any sort of tell. This was the last card; Castiel flipped the top one from the stack and glanced at it for a moment before letting it sit face up on the table.

A King of Clubs.

Slowly, the players began to reveal themselves. One more man called his bet and folded, dismissing himself from the hand. That left merely six players; Toce, Arturi, Crowley, Dean, Castiel, and another gentleman slumped in his seat, his black, beady eyes set on the cards. Dean and Castiel threw in their final bets, and one by one the cards were turned over.

Arturi, not even finished with watching the reveal, threw his pair on the table with a flourish. "Read 'em and weep, boys!" he said, leaning back in his chair. He threw down a four and Jack of Spades – a clear straight flush. The remaining men had a mix of actions as they tried to see if their hands were any better with the available cards in the middle of the table; a few others swore as they put down low cards or ones from mismatched suits. Those that had stopped playing looked on impatiently, obviously not a fan of their friend's bragging. Dean showed his own cards – like he predicted, he was somewhere in the middle; gambling was always a lot harder when you didn't rig the game.

Arturi glanced at the cards clasped in Castiel's hand, still hidden. "Oh please, Cas. Indulge us. How much of your Daddy's money did you just waste, huh?" Dean glared at the comment.

"None, I'd say." Castiel said stiffly.

"What?"

Castiel tapped his hands idly on the cards, looking rather fed-up. "I'd say you are, how you say? _overcompensating_ for something."

"It's over, moron. Just show your damn cards."

"No, it isn't, and no, I won't." he observed the other men's cards. "Did none of you notice how anxious he got near the end?" he turned back to Arturi. "You almost had it, but you were getting greedy, weren't you?"

The other man began to sputter unintelligently, his face going red.

"You kept on looking at the pot when I was shuffling, and again, during the betting rounds." His eyes flicked to the half finished smoke in the ashtray. "You had to snuff out your cigar so other people couldn't see your fingers twitch."

"That's bull. Shoulda known that a commie bastard like you would pull some mind trick like this."

"There's no trick. It's just simple observation. Obvious, really."

"Oh, obvious?" the man smiled in a rueful way. "Keep talking, I'll just use the bet money to find someone to snuff you out back you goddamn - "

Dean opened his mouth, desperate to say something, but this time the unnamed man piped up: "Cool it, guy," he was fiddling with his drink in plain fashion. "Bastard isn't worth the clothes he stole; he's probably confused. God knows they all just shared the wins in the backwater village he came from, huh? He can't understand the concept of working hard for something if everybody shouldered all the weight."

Arturi sniffed. "Never understood why you people came all the way over here if you were just gonna take what we have. Damn –"

And then Castiel flipped his cards up.

Castiel caused the entire table to go quiet for the second time that night.

Both were Spades. An Ace and a King. Castiel didn't crack a smile, not even as Arturi stared disbelievingly at them, staring at the pair that would make a Royal Flush.

"So much for a gentlemen's game," he said in a low voice. "Excuse me." He rose from his chair, and grabbed a pile of notes from the pot – maybe a third, though he was probably carrying about four hundred dollars. Dean grasped his arm, trying to get his attention, but he threw a scalding look at him. Castiel wasn't just angry, he looked vaguely hopeless; _just try proving that you're not a camel. _

There was a crescendo of club music; a type of waltz in with a Latin flare that was made for the dramatic. Dean couldn't hear Castiel's footsteps or see where the man was headed from where he sat, but he knew it would be out of the building all together.

Crowley's gaze was on Castiel as he disappeared into the crowd. He turned back to Dean. "Might want to keep a leash on that one," he said in a sage way. Everyone excepting Dean and Arturi laughed.

"Uh, I – " Dean made an abortive gesture and nearly fell over his own chair in a rush to get away from the table. He nearly sprinted through the waiters and dancing couples who had spilled out of the dance floor – and pushed through gaggles of men and women who hardly seemed to notice his haste. Suddenly the joke about Crowley's den being a fancy-lit hell wasn't so funny anymore, and he was only stopped on the way out of the Hotel lobby by a concierge, asking if he had taken his hat. Dean desperately searched for Castiel's own garments, finding that he had apparently not bothered to stop at the coat room on his way out.

He left carrying a bundle of clothing, running out onto the street at a late hour of night, suddenly starved for breath that wasn't stained with booze and smoke and the grating laugh of his betters, and desperately wondering where Castiel had went. There were some loiterers crowded outside, smoking and chatting, and they eyed Dean and his baggage, but none of them were who Dean was looking for. Voices were crushing into his mind and it felt like his vision was blacking over the sense of panic about losing Castiel again, so he scurried away from the hotel and down the street, where everything was left quiet and dark.

Castiel had tucked himself just inside the door of an office building, smoking a hand rolled cigarette as if he couldn't breathe without the tobacco in his lungs. His brows were drawn in a worried look, his mouth bowed in the same manner, and his eyes closed in what could be anything from distress to concentration, but the moment he heard the crunch of Dean's shoe on pavement, he opened his eyes, freezing Dean in his tracks with an icy glare.

Dean opened his mouth, realized he hadn't thought of anything to say, and let a gust of air fall from his parted lips. His brain was a scramble of curses as he waited for Castiel to react.

His eyes flicked down to Dean's arms. He silently shuffled the coat and hat into one hand and gave it over to Castiel.

Castiel nonchalantly shrugged the garment over his shoulders, lightly holding the brim of his hat as smoking took up most of his occupation. In the darkness, he seemed to consider Dean's presence, attempting to deduce a motive for chasing him out of the club.

Their silence was no longer companionable. Feeling forced to say something Dean went with the knee-jerk response; "Nice game, back there."

Castiel said nothing.

"I didn't stay, but I think Arturi was pretty shook up."

Castiel squinted, but still only opened his mouth to let out a puff of smoke. It was a coarser brand than the cigars the men had been chewing on. One of those things specifically unique to the man a ways from him.

"I guess you proved your point, then, right?" Dean ventured. "I mean, the things he said – "

"Why'd you follow me out?" Castiel said. Dean responded without thought.

"Well I _had _to, Cas. I wasn't just going to leave you out here by yourself."

"Very knightly behavior," Castiel crunched his cigarette on the ground before lighting up another one just as quick. Dean noticed there were a few butts littering the ground around him.

"Cas…"

Castiel made a shooing motion with his hand. "You sure the fellows aren't waiting for you to come back?"

Dean showcased the coat hanging off his arm. "I didn't plan on going back. They're not my friends. Cas, look, I know that you're mad – "

"Astute observational skills." Castiel quipped.

"It's just how they are," Dean said.

"Is that how you are, too?" Castiel said back. Dean didn't know what to do with a question like that, but as it turned out, Castiel wasn't waiting for him to answer it, anyway. "I've been here for a long time, Dean. I know that they hate me, and they wouldn't lose an ounce of sleep if they _did_ send someone to bump me off. That's, as you say, _how they are._ The kind of people who take you apart: Anything from your clothes, to where you were born, to what accent you have, and how much money you don't make. And that's… okay." Castiel didn't sound convinced at that. "I can't say I expected any different. But you never took me as a wolf in sheep's clothing. I suppose I'm too familiar with blind faith, though, huh?

"You leave, and I let you come back because you had a good reason to be busy, I thought. I gave you the benefit of the doubt. And you seem like a good enough person… when we're alone, at least. In there you couldn't lift a finger to help me, not even say something to take their attention away from me for a moment? Calm them down? They'd listen to you, right?"

Dean was once again struck speechless, mouth agape. "You'll catch flies like that," Castiel mimicked. He tossed his spent cigarette to the ground and ran a hand through his hair. "Not going to defend yourself? Say it's a misunderstanding, something like that?"

And perhaps Dean would've had something to say if he was a different type of guy; he'd point out that he was still made of the same stuff that Crowley and his men scraped off their shoes, even if he was allowed to sit with them for a game. He'd want to plead that it wasn't his fault, to please, please reconsider it. Because somehow Castiel had grown to the most important thing he had in the city, and one of the few things in the world that could make him smile for what felt like hours on end. The only problem, of course, was that Dean had never had the chance to be _that_ type of guy; he was the one always looking for an exit, even to a perfect situation.

He was the one that, given the chance, would have pushed Castiel away. If only in some demented way to keep him safe.

"I slept with some girl on Sam's wedding night." He blurted, feeling so guilty at the admission, almost sick with it. And it hurt; of course it hurt – as if he was tearing out some viable part of himself, but Castiel just wanted an answer, and Dean counted on the other's kindness once, but the type of forgiveness he needed now was never going to come about; the best to hope for was that Castiel would feel like he had gotten out of a mess; regardless of the sort Dean would be dragging himself into.

Castiel gave him a withering look. "If this is an attempt to get me to talk to you again, I find your methods highly questionable."

"I'm saying you _shouldn't_ talk to me at all, Cas." Castiel stopped. "I'm not a good person, alright? I brought you here because I've never been able to figure out how to treat someone like an actual person, and I guess making you up like some prized dog is as close as my twisted mind can come to showing that. I act like nothing matters and it's all just one big adventure because _that's_ easier than trying to figure this sort of thing out. And that's a piss-poor excuse, I know. Don't you think I _get_ that by now? I'm one of the best guys to have around – and then you get to know me." He barked out a laugh. "I've been putting on this show for Sammy, my bosses, every guy and dame I've ever seen, ever since I was a kid I've been like this. But I just can't seem to do it to you."

"Why?" Castiel asked. Dean waved his arms as if he was drowning.

"Because you deserve something better than that, and I'm sorry for wasting your time here, and for the last half a year, because I let you think that I was." He looked at Castiel one more time, and when no other comments came, he sluggishly turned on his heel, heading back to his part of the city.

His first few steps were uncertain, mind not quite made up on where he was going; he couldn't be sure of anything at the moment – to be honest, Castiel had been the one fixture in his life for the last few weeks; he had spoiled himself. Even his brother's letters – the closest thing he had to him now – arrived sporadically, if often. But it wasn't the same as actually being with him. It was almost laughable how quickly things went wrong in his life. But he'd worry about breakdowns later; he wasn't sure if he ought to go back into the hotel, but the darkness of his own apartment seemed just as unbearable.

He was sure Castiel had wandered away by that point, fed up with him. He didn't blame the guy. He let a ton of rich bastards walk all over him because Dean had no sense of privacy. He groaned in a defeated way, rubbing at his eyes.

A voice rang out from behind him. "What makes you think _you_ don't deserve better?"

"Huh?"

"You saw them – Crowley, your boss, and the rest of them. They were staring at you like you were a little fish." Castiel's accent became more pronounced on the last word, from anger, as he snarled out the sentence. And it still made Dean wince. He had no idea why Castiel would bother to stay – rub more salt in the wounds? He probably earned it. Dean was still afraid to face him, so he stayed rooted to the spot.

"They looked at both of us like that."

"No, just you." At Dean's uncertain pause Castiel actually seemed to make an irritated snort. "You'd think that your favorite past-time is being the Fall Guy."

Dean squinted. "How do you mean?"

"You think that Crowley invited you over to be nice? There had to be another reason; and it definitely wasn't to mock the Russian tailor who wormed his way into the party."

"Why then?"

Castiel shrugged. "I recognized a few of them. Three of them are in the stock market. One has the largest Italian shipping yard in Brooklyn, and the rest all own monopolies of hotels and businesses – convenient for, eh, well this sort of thing. Meet-ups, drugs, prostitutes, the works, if they're into that. They do seem the type." Dean was baffled at Castiel's insight. As if sensing that, Castiel went, "I know about all your cases, too, Dean. You think I'd miss out on the big-name offenders?"

"Do you have a mafia scrapbook or something that you keep under your bed?"

"Of course not. It's just a few notebooks." Dean still couldn't tell if Castiel was joking. He went on. "A few of them were on leave in Europe for business. Maybe the gang was all there tonight, and they wanted to… hm, check the new arrival, so to speak. For one reason or another." Castiel nodded to himself, cogs of the mind all thrumming together as he thought about his theory. "Yes, it makes sense in a way. I can see that now. But still, you didn't just agree with me when I was taking my anger out on you – you tried to help me prove it. By telling me…" he made a small gesture. "What sort of guy does that to himself?"

_Me_, Dean thought to himself. "Look," Dean insisted. "It was my job to take you out,"

"I'm a job to you, Dean?" Castiel's voice seemed closer to him than before. "Or is _everything_ a job to you?" he posed it like an honest question about Dean's character. He let out a breath. "Can't help that, I suppose. That's who you are, isn't it?" Castiel no longer sounded angry, much less at him. It was something else – like, sadness. A longing for something. Or maybe pity; Dean could have been reading too much into it.

"Cas, just tell me what you're talking about for god's – "

Castiel shushed him. Dean reverted back to silence for a minute.

Then; "Look at me, Dean." Slowly, Dean managed to turn around. Castiel _was_ closer. No longer smoking or leaning against a building. He had returned to a serious expression, but his eyes didn't pierce him when he looked his way. His jaw was set harshly though. Whatever he had mulled over was decided. And Dean swallowed, feeling the severity of Castiel's unvoiced words, and moreover, that damning half-elation that could only be described as hope, crush his chest like iron weights.

"Get on with it then," Dean muttered, even as he internally cringed.

Castiel squinted and tilted his head to the side, still regarding him in a shrewd way, as if trying to determine what, exactly, he was seeing. And then he opened his mouth, ready to give his answer.

**xxxx**

**A/N: Oh, cliffhanger. Guess I'm evil. Alright, there's a lot of historical information crammed in here, so we'll try and do this quick and in order: There's some slang here; **_**spifflicated**_** was a cool way to mean 'drunk'; the named song playing in the club, **_**'Jesus Make up my Dying Bed' **_**is included because it was recorded in 1927 by a Jazz singer Blind Willie Johnson, but more importantly, it was the basis of the Led Zeppelin song 'In My Time of Dying', which was also the first episode of Supernatural's Season two. Not even making that up. So I **_**had**_** to throw it in here, for obvious reasons. Next, Crowley's table is playing a game of poker – I don't know the first thing about it, shocker – now, Texas Hold 'Em, the most common type of poker, wasn't played outside of Texas until 1967, so, being in New York City, it's possible that they would have played something similar to it. Community card games just mean that there are cards on the table that everyone has. These games require you to watch other players for 'tells', to try and see if they'll fold or if they have a bad hand. Also, Castiel is a very good poker player, especially when it comes to poker faces. He can also hold down serious quantities of liquor. **

** Now, the little Wolf and Hare story Castiel tells is a Russian joke – I had a plan to have Castiel tell an embarrassingly unfunny joke before about half of this story was even thought up, so here it is. It's a common joke to kind of iterate how frustrating it was to explain things to government officials, where you'd have to jump through hoops to prove that you say, lost a limb in the war or weren't, in fact, dead. So the line **_**just try proving you're not a camel **_**mostly means **_**try telling someone something when they don't want to listen.**_** Also, Arturi's comment about wasting 'Daddy's money' is again the use of slang; a Daddy was the early incarnation of a sugar daddy; a younger girl's older boyfriend who may or may not have given her things in exchange for… other things. This is why Dean gets upset. Phew! That was a mouthful. If there are any other questions, feel free to leave a comment!**


	13. Sunday Morning with Dean Winchester

Castiel was a saint.

That was Dean's only explanation. Staring blankly at the other man, he desperately scraped around his head, trying to come up with a response. Just a few words. Maybe an 'okay' would do, but nothing seemed to be wired right anymore, and he just stood, dumbfounded and silent.

"I said I accept your apology, Dean." Castiel tilted his head to one side, as if he couldn't comprehend that those words, that open forgiveness he was bestowing upon his companion, was nothing short of earth-shattering.

In a nutshell, Dean wasn't used to getting breaks. Anything convenient came with a price. It was one thing for Castiel to accept him back with open arms after he had left him in the dust. But this, getting him messed up in Crowley's company, watching him get insulted from everything from his drink to his country, there was no other explanation Dean could call to mind, nothing short of actual divinity, about how someone could just take a look at another's mountain of flaws, and push through them, like they weren't anything more hindering than a gust of wind.

"Dean?" Castiel was squinting at him. "Are you okay?"

"You, uh," Dean swiped a hand across his mouth. The humid air from the sea was making him sweat. "I was kind of expecting you to say something else."

"What else would I say?"

"Oh, you know, 'I never want to see you again, you dumb bastard,' or 'if I see you at my shop anymore I will personally see that your face gets smashed in with a crowbar.' You know, the usual stuff you say to people you're breaking it off with."

Castiel's confusion did not alleviate. "I don't understand. I'm not mad at you, Dean." He shrugged. "I mean I _was_, I suppose, but well, it was hardly your fault, how the night went."

"I could've bothered to stand up for you," Dean grumbled.

"You could've." Castiel responded. "I said as much. But I'm a romantic, Dean, I'm not stupid. If you started defending me in front of them, being blacklisted would probably have been the start of your problems." He touched Dean's arm gently, curling his fingers just above his elbow. Dean leaned into it, chest aching when he imagined what he would do without being able to simply exist besides Castiel. He hadn't realized how attached he'd grown until the possibility of loss came into his mind; as was typical of him – he noticed things like that too late. Except this time, it felt like he was being given an undeserved second chance. "Take me home, Mr. Winchester," Castiel murmured into Dean's ear, nodding not the way he had come with Gabriel and Balthazar hours ago, but in the opposite direction.

Where Dean lived.

Faintly, Dean realized he had actually gulped. Reaching up to pull at his collar only stirred the still air around them, and made him feel Castiel's breath touching down his neck. He shivered, but this time the weather wasn't what was making his body react.

"Yeah, sure." Dean said, feeling his fingers curl deeper into his shirt, Castiel's arm slipping into the crook of Dean's.

They walked down the road, arm in arm, the illumination from streetlights and the odd apartment window guiding the way. Sometimes Dean swore he could feel Castiel's lips against his ear or his cheek or his hairline, and other times Castiel caught Dean staring at him with dark, heated eyes. Dean honestly wondered how they would actually manage to make it home without falling all over one another. Lust was, after all, negligible until it was introduced; and Castiel's suggesting tone had left a fire scorching through Dean, so much so that he entertained the idea of being pressed up against the brick wall of an alley, being kissed and ravished by Castiel in some dirty, depraved way, and felt all the more desperate for it.

It actually came as quite a surprise when Dean's building came into view. It used to be an old mansion on the curves of the bay, later re-done and turned into single bedroom apartments; four floors and sixteen rooms worth. It had long lost its elegant luster after too many storms wore down the paint and a long line of landlords refused to fix it up, so it was lost to the bachelors of the city who preferred a cheap place to house their hobbies and the peculiar life that came when you were adrift between a family and a wife. Dean had met a few of his neighbors, and nearly all of them seemed identical to him; they all sat cooped up inside, perhaps with a job, or an irregular way to pay the rent. Sometimes you could make out another person was with them, sharing the night, but thankfully the walls were thick enough that nothing short of a band rehearsing would be clearly heard. Dean fished the key out of his pocket and reluctantly unlatched himself from Castiel. They were still close. Too close, and yet they still were forced to refrain from actually touching one another – it was a maddening feeling, and Dean fumbled clumsily with the lock, trying to get back some sort of composure.

They slipped inside; the foyer was a tiny room with a staircase and a set of mailboxes for the tenants. "Please tell me you're close," Castiel whispered again.

"Top floor." Castiel groaned in response, hastening towards the staircase, overcoat billowing out behind him as he hurried along.

Another door awaited them, and this time it seemed like the last thread of patience Castiel had been riding on was moments away from snapping apart. He loomed beside Dean, not that interested in the fact that the other's hands shook in an effort to both unlock his godforsaken door and obscenely curse both in his head and under his breath about why the contraptions were so damn small that you couldn't even see the damn things, _shit_! No, instead he seemed to be reappraising every square inch of Dean's face, his mouth slightly agape as if about to say something else that would set Dean's mind alight and his focus handicapped further.

The door mercifully opened with a small creak, and Dean let himself inside.

Castiel probably wouldn't have given Dean time to close and latch the thing back up, but thankfully, being slammed against the aperture, mouths pressed hotly together, Dean managed to get enough of his gray cells working to make sure that the room was bolted shut, and no one would be coming in for a surprise show.

After that, however, intelligent thoughts seemed to have shriveled up in his brain. Because Castiel was… Castiel was – _oh_ Dean groaned, feeling his teeth bite into the red of the other man's lips. There was a sudden notion that as alluring and consuming the mere touch of Castiel's mouth to his was, he needed more. His hands went from the other's shoulder and began curling around the trench coat, slipping it off to a pile on the ground. One, two buttons on the suit jacket, and then that was gone as well.

They broke apart, and Castiel grasped at Dean's clothes. "Take them off," he commanded, low and feral and just this side of dangerous. And Dean found himself halfway done unbuttoning his dress shirt before feeling Castiel's hand on his tie, dragging him forward for another frenzied set of kisses. Castiel moved his hands to loosen the knot at Dean' throat, and shuddered when Dean's fingers pulled at his belt. There was the metallic clink as it came undone, and Castiel's hands stopped roaming, settling again on the now naked skin of Dean's waist, content there.

Their eyes met; a blue gaze on green, and Dean let a hand trail to Castiel's jaw, holding them in place. He smiled then, catching the flush on Castiel's cheek and the way his hair had quickly gone from brushed to out of control. The way he could see a sheen of sweat in the hollow of his throat and every breath he took made his shoulders twitch.

This wasn't the first time he had been pushed against the door and kissed silly, without pause – it wasn't even the first time he had to wait on the edge of his seat to get home, the other person breathing down his neck in a way that made even walking a straight line an uphill battle. But being with Castiel gave him pause in a way that made his heart beat faster and his longing grow exponentially. Every intimate moment with Castiel felt like the last he would ever have the pleasure to keep. So the reverence of being able to hold him felt like some sort of miracle.

"Thank-you," Dean murmured, Castiel blinked and he could feel his lashes against the ridges of his finger. His mouth opened and Dean's thumb brushed his bottom lip.

"For what?" Dean swallowed.

"Letting me have this. Letting me have _you_, I mean." Castiel offered a subdued smile.

"That is a two way street, Dean. So, thank-you, as well." He leaned to kiss him again, not as flurried as before, no longer desperate, the action slipped into a slow burn as they moved; their mouths, their hands, halfway through getting Castiel out of his pants he realized they'd have to get to the bed at some point. He nudged the other man a bit as he walked the both of them in short, unhurried steps. Dean's bed was on the other side of the apartment, though when you found yourself nearly completely entwined movement on any sort of vertical plane was always more than a bit tricky. It turned almost into a dance: A step, a kiss, another piece of clothing dropping to the floor, fingers tangled in hair already damp from sweat and the dank summer weather. If one fumbled as they moved, the other was sure to catch them like it wasn't even second-nature, as if the pair of them had been born to help the other up.

It wasn't until they were at the foot of the bed that Castiel seemed… hesitant. "Something wrong?" Dean said as he kissed delicately down the side of Castiel's neck, careful to not leave any marks, hands on his bare chest.

Instead of bolting from the room like Dean feared he would, he let out a self-conscious huff, sounding misplaced from the rough chip of his voice. "Oh, you're going to laugh…" he carried off, sitting down at the edge of the bed, pulling Dean on top of him just like before, in Castiel's bedroom. This time they were both half naked already, and neither was quite so prudent.

And no one would be coming up the stairs.

"No, tell me," Dean prodded gently, now genuinely curious, especially after the tint of Castiel's cheek inexplicably darkened.

"I…" he shook his head. "I probably won't be very good at this," he admitted. Dean stilled.

"You're a virgin?" he asked. Castiel made another noise that parodied a laugh, kissing Dean's cheeks.

"No, not that. Almost, though. It's been a few years."

"_Years_?"

"I said that I don't make a habit of coming on to people," Castiel said. "You are, in all, just the second."

Dean remembered that line, when the wounds from Alastair and his buddies were still fresh on the other man. "Sure, but I thought…" he paused.

"What?"

Dean pressed down on Castiel, and he fell on his back, onto the bed. Dean continued the little kisses on Castiel's chest, looking up at the other man as he did so. "I thought that must have meant that _other_ people came onto you; only _two_, Cas? Have you looked in a mirror at all? If my damned boss didn't show up I'd be more worried about a ton of girls coming by to pick you up – you're practically a Rudolph Valentino." He brushed a few dark strands from Castiel's forehead. "You're gorgeous."

It was rather amazing, watching how flustered a usually subdued man like Castiel could get. Dean wasn't too sure if Castiel had gone red from the onslaught of compliments – which were all true – or the fact that he had nothing more than underwear on, and Dean, slowly working his way down the other's stomach, was about to get those off, too. He let a few fingers brush against the bulge in the cotton, and Castiel gave a full-body shutter, closing his eyes.

"Like that?" Dean murmured, going back for more touches while he kissed Castiel's hips; the man was nearly shaking under him as his fingers teased him through the shorts.

Above him, he heard Castiel whimper.

"I'll take that as a yes," Dean said. He turned his head and drew back his hand, instead pressing open mouthed kisses there at Castiel's crotch. The other man made a strangled noise, as if not quite believing what he was seeing, feeling, and then Dean finally pried the shorts away with a sticky slide down his legs.

Dean paused.

"Huh." He said.

Castiel propped himself up on his elbows. "Something wrong?"

"Not wrong." He let his forefinger hover just above the edge of foreskin, the other hand resting on Castiel's leg. "Just wondered why you were wearing a turtleneck in July, that's all." And poor Castiel didn't even posses the ability to look miffed at that; not with Dean's idle explorations of his body. He caressed and teased – quite a few emigrated men were uncut anyway, so Dean wasn't exactly surprised; one reputable facet learned for men like Castiel was that they were always, _always,_ more sensitive to touch.

For once Castiel had difficulty keeping eye contact. Ruddy-faced and shaking, he focused on Dean's hands, one wrapped around the very top of his thigh, thumb gently stroking back and forth against soft skin and light hairs there, dreadfully close to that particular spot of nerves, hot and hard and achingly sensitive with want, with the way Dean's eyes glinted in the low burn of the lamp, his teasing little touches and scorching kisses and the idea that maybe, after so long –

Dean touched him, then. Little pinpricks of contact right below the head – and Castiel threw himself back sharp enough to bang his skull on the wired headboard; unable to feel the pain as he howled a long string of foreign words to the ceiling.

When he was done – enough to breathe once more – Dean was panting, too.

Castiel's accent had been easily ignorable for a while, but in that instant, Dean was reminded with vigor that Castiel's first language was not English. It was one of the first times he had heard Castiel curse – _really_ curse, and he could pick out most of the words – but such an interesting way he bunched them together just then! And there were some words that he couldn't make out. Ones that were probably spawned in whatever little village Castiel had lived in once, never going beyond a local scope. His mind tried to fill in the blank spaces, and every time the message's content got dirtier, specific, begging even. And Castiel's gruff, native inflection stuck out to such a potent degree that Dean doubted he'd be able to bear the other muttering the most innocent and systematic sentences without getting red in the face like he was now; shifting impatiently as his jaw clenched, toes curled into the bedspread.

"Dean," Castiel was leaning forward, a desperate look on his face. He grasped at the back of Dean's neck, legs twisting underneath the other man, trying to pull the two of them closer. "Dean, please."

And already Dean felt like the luckiest guy in the world. He let go of Castiel, gave him a few kisses to either soothe or worsen the ache of lust, and eased him back down. He nodded over to the nightstand table. "I need something from there." And he leaned up, over the other man's body, unwilling to leave the tangle of limbs and heat for even a moment, even as he moved so that his chest was at the same level of Castiel's head.

He eased one of the drawers open, rifled around, and just as his hand closed on a small jar of oil, Castiel had apparently decided to right revenge on the man who had teased him just moments ago.

In all the time they had spent together, Dean had never figured that Castiel's hands – getting full use from his trade as a tailor; cutting, measuring, writing and such, with a practiced grip that never wavered on the job – would amount to a hidden weapon. He felt them trail his abdomen with practiced control and gentleness, and as they wandered past the ticklish sections of his stomach, along the straining muscles of his back, the dip of his spine; massaging, touching, it was almost relaxing – the soothing touch of a lover helping the other get to sleep, perhaps. But somehow, even as his body arched at the touch without conscious thought, Dean was too enthralled in the motions to even remember how to moan.

The room became so hot he couldn't seem to breathe.

And then he felt the light scratches of Castiel's fingernails as they went down farther along his back, slipping into his underwear, pushing the shorts farther down his legs to grasp him, squeeze him.

Dean was left with two choices; fall off the bed, or settle back down with Castiel.

One hand left his ass and dragged him down until Dean could look Castiel in the eye again. Their kiss was a rough trail of heat in each other's mouths, Dean blindly scrabbling to get his shorts off the rest of the way. He now could feel every precious inch of Castiel, and as the other's arms wrapped around him once more, pulling him impossibly closer, he felt an odd sense of peace, buried under the rapid tides of his mind, mostly controlled by the overworked amount of sensations, the need to find release.

Still fisted in his right hand was the bottle.

Dean found a moment of solace, or at least a place to catch his breath, buried in the crook of Castiel's neck. "You know how this works, right?" He could feel Castiel's chest stutter as he sighed. He nodded, tracing along Dean's jaw line for a moment before letting him up, to sit between Castiel's thighs. Dean unscrewed the bottle while stubbornly trying to be unperturbed by the commands of his body; the way he had to keep to slow, steady breathing every time the skin of Castiel brushed his own. The room was quiescent once more; pale and dark from the night.

Castiel watched Dean with dark eyes. His fingers dipped into the golden colored liquid; it was slick, and gave off the wooden, spiced smell of myrrh. "May I ask you something?" he said. Dean looked up, saw the expression on Castiel's face as an understandable amount of nerves, so he nodded, absently sliding his fingers together.

"How many people have you been with?"

Dean felt something not unlike shame burn in his chest – it took him by surprise; usually he wore his badge of vice with pride. But looking at Castiel, it was different. Castiel himself, was just different. "Too many to count," Dean answered honestly.

Castiel glanced out towards the window. Dean had thankfully shut the curtains before he had left, as was his habit; soft hints of light came through, but hardly a shadow would be cast from the other side, should anyone walk by the window. "Just for the night, right?"

"As slick as I am, now's not the best time to be discussing every tryst I've had in my life," he tried to keep his voice even.

"Sorry," Castiel said at length.

Dean hesitated, then dimly wondered if Castiel thought he was even in the same hemisphere as the people he'd impulsively pick up at bars and clubs. He put a reassuring hand on Castiel's thigh. "I've been with a lot of people," he offered. "We have our fun, I kick them out after and that's it." He leaned up, kissing Castiel's parted lips. "But the ones I care about? The ones I want to stay by? I don't even need a full hand to count people like that." He smiled in an assuring way, hoping Castiel would be able to put two and two together.

"Okay," Castiel responded. He paused a moment, then nodded down at their bodies as a nonverbal instruction.

Dean adjusted himself and slide one finger inside.

The reaction was instantaneous. Castiel made a face near to a wince. "It's cold," he muttered, and Dean shrugged a shoulder in a helpless way.

"Most stuff is cold compared to the rest of you." But still he offered Castiel some reprieve, leaning up to catch his mouth again, not pulling away until he thought their lips felt near to bleeding, leaving Castiel with a beautiful contrast, between the white pallor of his skin – not so shy anymore – the darkness of his hair, and the luminescent glow of his eyes and lips further cemented the image of the other man as a work of art in Dean's head. How had Castiel been alone for so long? Looking like that – there was a languid groan falling from both their lips.

Dean leaned in closer, adding one more digit as Castiel bit on the inside of his cheek, trying to alleviate the burn of flesh, the anxiety that came with the territory. "But really though? Years?" he was more than a little incredulous, and a naked, desire-ridden Castiel was certainly one of those erotic delights Dean would keep tucked away in his mind forever; the way that Castiel was laying, open, trusting, worked over and just barely kept intelligent by the brush of a dulled ache; Dean considered it a miracle he had never gotten carried away.

Castiel gasped, rings of muscles quivered under Dean's touch and he smirked at the lucky find.

"Just one. That was… _shit_, when… when we first came here." Dean's expression became good-humored, and he slowly let his fingers slide out of him. He reached for the bottle again, pulse thundering furiously in his ears as he slicked the rest of himself. Castiel let his breathing steady as he waited, rustling against the sheets. "Well," he supplied in the humid air of Dean's apartment, "not everyone is as insatiable as you, Dean."

Dean's lips curled up, showing a quick flash of teeth. He tossed the bottle on the other end of the mattress. "Just so you know," he said, gripping Castiel's thighs, hovering over him. "I'm taking that as a challenge."

Their pace was unusually slow for someone like Dean. Not just the first few experimental thrusts; or the moments they curled together without moving, waiting to adjust; or even the long push-pulls where their bodies met, both comfortable and drawn out to house the spikes of pleasure they felt. The entirety of their love-making, even before they had fallen into bed, had extended into a long, linear stretch – this wasn't just one night's payoff; this sort of thing had been weeks, months, in the making, and Dean, until now, hadn't even realized it.

A quickened thrust had Castiel practically bowed from the bed, and Dean fell into him, kissing up his throat and swallowing half a string of foreign curses – still shivering when they came to his ears.

It had been years since Dean had something like this; someone he renowned and treated as a treasured person; where he went slowly, carefully, without the languidness that alcohol brought as an accomplice.

They moved faster, hands digging into one another in desperation as Castiel called out his name mixed with curses, falling from his mouth like it was the only prayer he knew. He felt Castiel's legs interlock together on his back and that was it; Castiel came with a final shout that Dean would never think of silencing, no matter who would hear.

Castiel looked up at him; dazed with pleasure, as if not believing that it had been that good, and – finally, finally, that had been the last spark before Dean's body ignited; colors burst from the back of his eyes and he collapsed, boneless, onto the splendor of Castiel's flesh.

They were entangled in silence and far-reaching breaths for quite a while after that.

"That was…" Castiel seemed to wrack his brain for the proper word, and Dean tried not to split his face in a self congratulatory grin. He moved just slight enough that Castiel wouldn't risk his ribcage being crushed during the night.

Whatever remained of the night.

"Maybe it'll come to you in the morning," Dean said helpfully. He went on his side, one arm going around Castiel's stomach. Castiel shifted himself, but didn't move away. He stared at the ceiling for a long time. Dean didn't mind, unwilling to talk again; everything seemed drained out of him now, so he merely kissed Castiel's temple as a way to say goodnight, letting his other hand run through thick, dark hair, now partly curled from the heat.

After Dean had stopped even that, fully asleep, Castiel turned his head towards him and smiled, watching him with fond eyes.

**xxxx**

Long ago, Dean had learned to function with only a few fitful hours of rest. But after so many years in the city where the only thing you found yourself waking up to was a car horn or a particularly large clap of thunder, drifting into a deeper sleep had been an allowed luxury.

Still, the old memories of his life before, where it was just him, his brother, and John, kept him in tune enough that when he awoke later that night, he knew it was for a particular reason.

It had to be a few hours short of dawn, for there were no moonbeams shining through the pulled curtain and shades – and the dim street lamps below hardly did anything but betray the window's shape. The sheets were tousled, warm.

But he was alone.

He curled his fingers into the bedspread, and heard something besides his own breathing in the dim room.

The creak of floorboards.

The gentle rustle of clothing.

"Cas?" he whispered. The sound ceased for a moment, but Dean, still more than half asleep, couldn't seem to dredge up his survival instincts that were so easily smothered by a warm bed and soft blankets. He'd be embarrassed, if he could remember it in the morning.

Slowly, Castiel's figure came into view. He was holding his shoes and socks in hand; his pants already on.

"What's the matter?" Dean said, voice muddled.

"I…" Castiel sent a flurried glance to the door, and then the clothing in his hands. "I thought maybe…" Dean sighed.

"Come back to bed, Cas." He blindly reached out for a corner of blanket, lifting it up in invitation. Castiel stood there; still uncertain, for a moment, before finally setting down his shoes and pulling off his trousers, standing just in his shorts. He had a weary smile on his face as he slipped under the covers besides Dean.

"Thank-you." He kissed Dean's sleep-warm cheek and let himself be enveloped, partly due to Dean's subconscious search for warmth against the cool weather that had descended during the night.

Dean didn't respond; may have not even heard Castiel as he drifted off. The whole thing passed like a dream, and in the morning Dean didn't even wonder why or how Castiel had gotten his underwear on in the middle of the night, or how all of his clothes seemed a little closer to the bed than before.

**xxxx**

For once Dean found himself awake at eight o' clock, on a Sunday, and not minding it one bit. The main difference was Castiel, still deep seated in his arms, though he was persistently trying to get Dean to release him.

"What's up?" he said, smiling. Castiel stilled at the look, paused, and then slowly smiled back. "It's early, still. You don't even work on Sundays, do you?"

"I have to go to church." Dean squinted at him for a moment, and then nodded his head towards the rest of the bed; the way they still laid entangled together. "We're like this… and the one thing on your mind is getting dressed and going to pray."

"Well, it's not the only thing on my mind." Castiel offered.

"Screw the church,"

"Don't say that."

Dean grunted before settling back down, taking his arms away so that Castiel could move.

He didn't.

"I never told Anna and Gabriel that I'd be gone for the night, either." He said.

"Anna said that you can take care of yourself."

"They might appreciate knowing I'm not dead in a ditch." Dean sighed, and sat up, sitting cross-legged on the bed and staring down at Castiel. He ran a hand down to touch his friend's cheek, hand scratching against stubble.

"You can't just waltz in there in yesterday's suit with scruff on your face," Dean said. "By the time you looked like you didn't just roll out of bed. _With me_," he added with emphasis, "The service would be half over."

"If you want me to stay you could just ask." Castiel said, slowly straightening to sit on the edge of the bed. He stared down at the clothes that were strewn around the floor, and realized that despite spending a night in Dean's own private abode, he hadn't bothered to take in the scenery that remained separate of, say, Dean himself. And maybe the bed.

It was bigger than Castiel's room if only because it only had the one room to claim as its own. There was the nightstand, and on one side of the bed there was a wardrobe and a dresser, fitted in the space between the two windows with drawn curtains. On the other side sat a table with three chairs, a pile of letters on them; the most decorative feature was a small Persian throw rug and a large armchair that looked like the most lived in part of the place. It was a little surprising, how minimalist Dean's apartment was. There was quite a lot of furniture, but everything remained closed off, like most of his belongings had been packed away somewhere else. On the far end of the room, by the exit door, and entrance to what was probably a washroom, was a modest kitchen setting that betrayed the moderate age of the building; a few cabinets hung above a gas stove, a sink, and the newest piece of technology; an icebox, which was snugly fit between the two, probably where another drawer had once been. There were no books, at least not lying out with the idea that Dean had been reading them; and beside for the white molding on the walls, the sides of the room were entirely devoid of decoration. It felt, aside from the piles of papers on what might have been Dean's makeshift desk, just a ramification of a living place – an example found in an advertisement, perhaps.

It felt, in some way, incredibly lonely. Especially when one took into account the owner of the home.

Dean didn't seem to notice Castiel's inspection of his room. He stood up, moved off the bed and stretched, muscles buzzing as they were drawn taught. Castiel watched him, and had risen to his feet so that when Dean righted himself, Castiel was right behind him, placing a careful kiss on the bronze flesh of his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around Dean, much like Dean had done to him in the night.

"You want to stay for breakfast?" Dean asked; perhaps as his own method to keep Castiel there.

"I'd like that." Castiel said, nose still pressed against the skin, hands still on his stomach. When he moved away he wasn't expecting to get another deep-set, longing kiss from Dean, and when that happened he nearly fell back onto the bed in surprise.

It was alright, anyway. Dean caught him before he ever really lost his balance.

**xxxx**

Dean was content to putz around the kitchen completely nude, picking up scraps of clothing and either tossing them onto or near the bed – his – or folding them up and laying them on the back of the armchair – Castiel's – until he reached what would most sensibly be dubbed his kitchen; which all in all spanned roughly five feet across. "Coffee?" he asked.

Castiel, more modest, had slipped into his dress shirt and seemed to be contemplating whether putting on slacks would somehow be offensively too advanced compared to Dean's state of dress. "Please." He said, as he sat in one of the chairs placed around the table. Dean supposed he had come to the conclusion that, given what they had been doing just hours before, he was in no place to be embarrassed by baring his legs; especially not if Dean thoughtlessly bared… everything else.

He opened the cabinets and hummed in a thoughtful way, taking out a few things. He idly cut up an Italian roll, letting them toast on a skillet. "Hey, you like marmalade, right?" Castiel said that he did, lazily watching Dean amble over his morning routine as if he didn't have a guest; as their breakfast cooked, he went to slip on some lounge clothes, and when he opened his drawers to fetch them he thought with some amusement that Castiel might be recognize the majority of his outfits that he had mended by hand. He tossed open the curtains, finally, betraying the sunny streets of the city that were unprecedented, considering the heaviness of the air the night before. Dean caught the remnants of a storm that had passed in the form of puddles on the street, but they would be gone before lunch; the sun determined to shine through. Every once in a while he would glance over at Castiel, whose look hadn't strayed from whatever he happened to be doing. But it was more of an unconscious movement, and Dean hardly felt like he was being judged on any field by the other man. He only left Castiel's sight for the spare moments it took to wash his face in the bathroom. He looked surprisingly well rested – no bags or ashen complexion, and there was still that feeling of tranquility running through him, an odd sense, that. Dean never thought he kept himself too utterly busy, but it was as if he had been so preoccupied running around – in his head, if nowhere else – that he hadn't truly noticed in the first place.

When he stepped back into the room, he piled pieces of toast on a plate, then coffee and a few preserves of choice. He sat down next to Castiel and saw the other man preoccupied with something else; staring at the clump of mail he had on the table.

Castiel seemed to sense Dean looking, and distractedly reached for a coffee cup, he was curious no doubt, but was either refusing to ask Dean a question or was trying to find how to voice it. Dean glanced back to the letters. "They're from my brother," he supplied.

"Oh."

"He's in Venice, now." Castiel tilted his head, pursed his lips.

"Italy?"

"California."

"…I see. Yes, I remember now. Do you write back?"

"'Course. All the time. I got his two days ago, I just never got around to sitting down to reply."

"What's he doing there?" It was asked as a casual inquiry, less of an explanation for how the both of them ended up on opposite sides of the country; then again Castiel might have already known the basic premise of that, anyway.

"Right now? Looking for a job, I suppose. Jess – his wife – got, oh what was it…" he flipped through a few pages. "Okay, here. She's got a job watching kids for a while, plus being a bookkeeper."

"A bookkeeper? For finances?" Castiel bit into a slice of toast, the taste of oranges prevalent from the preserves.

"She's smart. Real smart I mean. He says that it was a neighbor she's working for – they're in an apartment down there – and the guy liked her enough to give her a job keeping order in his business. Some sort of realtor, I think. Sam, well, Sam's working, but he wants to go to a firm."

"As a lawyer?"

Dean smiled. "He's almost as smart as Jess." He set the papers down, and pushed them off to the side. Castiel's expression turned contemplative for a bit.

"What do you tell him?" he said finally, just as Dean was reaching for a jar of rhubarb and strawberry spread. He paused, fingers still outstretched. Castiel sipped his coffee, not appearing to notice Dean's hesitation.

"Whatever I'm up to, I guess," he mumbled halfheartedly. "Not a lot, really. My brother's the one pursuing a dream, after all. He has a family, he's in a place I've never seen – I'm just not that interesting."

"I think you're interesting," Castiel supplied, almost immediately. When Dean focused back on him he almost seemed embarrassed by how quick he ran to Dean's defense against himself.

"Don't worry," Dean teased. "You'll get to know me well enough to know I'm nothing to write…" he gestured at the letters, "_Venice_ about." Castiel squinted.

"No," he said. "I don't think I ever will. You're many things, Dean, but I don't think you fit into the 'run of the mill' type. It's not… exciting enough for you." He blinked. "I mean there's hardly any bank heists in regular Joe work."

"…You pulling my leg?" Castiel shrugged.

"You don't know a man like Gabriel for thirty-odd years and not come out of it without some room for humor."

"I guess not," Though perhaps Gabriel's humorous side hadn't been shown to him yet. Dean fitted his hand under his chin and rested it on the tabletop. "Though for what it's worth, you're not so ordinary yourself, Cas."

"Well, I don't know about that."

"You have your own mystique about you, too. You know more about me than I do of you." Castiel gave him a subdued smirk.

"Then perhaps you'll just have to get to know me better."

"I can't wait."

**xxxx**

**A/N: Well, this story just earned itself an M rating. No history lessons this time around, I'm afraid, unless I start with Rudolph Valentino, who was that era's Jensen Ackles, pre-crazy Tom Cruise, and Jesus, all rolled into one,****or which ethnic populations weren't commonly circumcised in the early 20th century.**** Instead it's more of a personal confession about the… more memorable part of the chapter; you might have gathered, but this was my very first attempt at a sex scene. Ever. Yeah. So it's kind of more towards the soft-core side; part of it is more of my own writing preference, though if you wanted a more legitimate reason I could say that the narrative evokes a more time-sensitive style, and not that we didn't have crazy borderline pieces of media in the 1920s, but the focus on emotions and imagery versus the physical mechanics of sex – which really kind of boils down to '****insert tab A into slot B****' scenario anyway no matter how you dress it – not that there's anything wrong with sex, but in this story every scene has a point – such as characterization, in this chapter's case. **


	14. A Form of Courtship

Summer, like always, passed by with a staggering swiftness. While Dean's occupation did not possess the typical vacations and leniency during warmer months, he noticed the usual signs of an approaching autumn. The foot traffic in the city steadily swelled as people returned to a more practiced routine, but the weather – hot and sticky – seemed determined to stay.

Sam's letters of late had mentioned nothing but cool ocean breezes, and Dean found that even whole worlds away his brother was somehow still able to give him ire.

Dean paused on a street curb, pulling distractedly at his collar as a car rolled on past him.

He was on his way back from Adam Milligan's apartment, closer to the one he had once shared with Sam and Jess. He had been less of a stranger to his half-brother as of late; the boy wasn't even Sam's age, but was married, seemed to be steadily rising in Lucifer's ranks, and had just let a newcomer into their home. The baby girl's name was Catherine, and for the hour or so he had spent with the fledgling family, she had seemed to take a shining to him. Admittedly, most kids did, whether or not he wanted them to. He had never pictured himself particularly nurturing or motherly, but it was better than the other – louder – alternatives that came with being around kids.

That was the train of thought Dean ran along with; the day had been slow, and he was left with a morose feeling. It was hardly the afternoon, but he had nothing else planned for the day; no chores, and he had already stopped by Castiel's shop that morning. It seemed that he'd just have to sit and stew into his own blue lined ennui; he wasn't exactly sure why watching happy families prattle around made him anything but. Partly his absent brother, he knew, but it had always been skewed like that, for as long as he could remember.

A man passing out of his apartment building let Dean catch the door. As he ascended the stairs, he slipped a hand into his pocket to search out his keys.

By the time he reached his landing on the steps, he was certain that he had somehow managed to lose them. He frantically felt at his trousers, jacket, even on his vest and shirt, but he got nothing – his gun was still there, as were his cigarettes, lighter, and the flat pouch he kept in case he needed to do some casual spending, but nothing even vaguely shaped like his keys.

Had he left them with Castiel? It certainly wouldn't have been the first time something slipped out of his jacket pocket when he set it down. Yes, that had to have been it – he nodded at his idea, calmed down a bit. Any excuse to head back east to the Novak's establishment was fine by him. And if he had dropped them somewhere among the city streets, it wasn't as if a locksmith wasn't around.

Still…

More of a reflex than a conscious action, he made a few short steps to the door and checked the knob.

It turned, opened.

Dean paused in the doorway, hesitant. He reached into the inside of his jacket, felt the revolver there, and slowly pulled it out, clasping it with one hand.

His shades were drawn – though he distinctly remembered leaving them open before he left that morning. The sunlight didn't permeate through enough to cast more than a few delicate overlays of light to the room. The door was pushed open just a crack – he could see a corner of the bed, his dresser and closet, but the majority of the room was kept hidden. Nothing besides the curtains seemed disturbed, but Dean wasn't sure if that was better or worse – a break-in wasn't necessarily pleasant, but most of the things he had could be replaced, and he doubted anyone would be able to get all of his savings from even a few hours in his empty apartment. But if it wasn't a thief…

Then there was quite a good chance that someone wanted to _talk_ with him.

He pressed his hand to the barrel of the gun; it was always fully loaded. And how many people could be there? No more than four – he'd have been able to see some shuffling about, noticeable shadows through the bottom crack of the door.

Of course, if he waited around any longer, trying to strategize against what else was behind his door, then he'd probably end up getting shot through the wood. He breathed out his nose, straightened his jacket back in order. In one fluid movement he slammed open the door and turned on the lights switch by the side of the door, aiming his pistol at whoever happened to be there.

A moment passed where Dean stood in a stilted position – arm still outstretched, hand on the trigger; his mouth propped open.

In the arm chair sat Castiel, both legs propped up on one of the thick arms; a novel in his lap. His gaze settled first on Dean's face, then on his gun.

He seemed… relatively relaxed, considering.

Dean pressed a hand to his cheek, letting his gun fumblingly slip back into his suit. "Jesus Christ, Cas. What the hell were you…?"

Castiel contemplated him, he almost looked amused. "You ought to shut that," he nodded at the door behind Dean. "Don't know who might come in, otherwise."

Dean's hand slid from his face. "You making fun of me?"

"A little." Castiel swung of the chair, slipping a page marker into his book. "I didn't mean to scare you," he said in a sincere tone.

"I could've shot you, you know," Dean groused out in a harsh tone.

"I figured that popping up the second you opened the door would have set you off more."

"Couldn't have waited outside?" Dean's brows furrowed and he realized his expression was set in a glare.

"Like a dog?" Castiel licked his lips. "I'm not too sure that'd be the best way to go about it. Standing around on the street where anyone could see me, then you, and then the both of us coming up here together." He raised his eyebrows, as if daring Dean to come up with a better way to meet for him.

Dean reluctantly found some merit to Castiel's reasoning, though it left his mood worse than before. "Right." Dean said. "So, what's going on?"

"Nothing. Well," Castiel reached into his pocket and pulled out a small key ring. One was Dean's apartment, another was for a company car Crowley had in rotation between him and a few other guys he dubbed competent enough to handle them. "You left these on the counter."

"How –"

Castiel squinted, this time it looked like he was trying to maintain a serious expression. "I fear that Misha might become an admired pickpocket when he's older." Dean gave a start; too many kids for one day. After a moment, he related his visit to Adam Milligan just before, more out of necessity than wanting to share. "You have another brother?" Castiel asked, sounding surprised.

"Half brother," Dean corrected.

Castiel gave an indifferent turn of the shoulder. "Family hardly relies on blood. To me, at least." He added, after watching Dean's face. "Anyway, I was only working till lunch so I thought…" he shook his shoulders again, and then began walking towards Dean, "Sorry. I'll just see myself out." He hesitated by Dean's side for a moment, their arms brushing, but merely placed the set of keys in Dean's hand before moving towards the door. Dean turned around. He wondered for a moment why Castiel seemed flippant, before realizing that he had been the one rude enough to send him away.

He didn't want to be alone.

"You have somewhere to be?" he asked it gently, fingers flexing around the sharp metal in his grip.

"No." Castiel said, pausing in the aperture. "You seem… distracted, is all. I thought I would let you have time to think."

Dean groaned. "I hate thinking," Castiel smiled, gestured to the book still on the chair.

"Read that, then. It might take your mind from… whatever you don't want to think about."

"I don't think that'd help."

"No? I think of them as the best distractions you could ever get."

"You sure it's the best?" Dean smiled in an off-kilter way, and Castiel gave a curious look. Slowly, he turned from the exit and stepped more firmly inside.

"What do you do when you have to take your mind of things?" he asked. Dean got closer, stepped more into Castiel's space. He pushed the door, letting it click closed.

"Well," he said after a moment, "It's kind of difficult to describe. Can I show you instead?" Castiel slid a hand up to touch Dean's jaw and chuckled.

"You're not the typical brooding character," it sounded dangerously reminiscent of teasing.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I figured you would have wanted me to go so you could have your own little time to mope. But instead…" he put his other hand on Dean's chest, slipping down to undo the two buttons on his jacket. "Hardly a typical reaction."

"I'm hardly a typical man," Dean said, pulling Castiel in for a kiss.

He only barely remembered to lock the door.

**xxxx**

"Cas," Dean said, not too long afterwards.

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you something?" the words were soft spoken.

"Of course." Castiel's head was tucked under Dean's chin, legs curled up to refrain from hitting the end of the board, toes tumbling off the edge of the mattress regardless. He didn't speak right away, instead carding hands through the inkwells of the other's hair, a hard habit that might soon match his need for cigarettes.

"What is it, Dean?" Castiel asked. Their chests rumbled, reverberating against each other.

Dean stared straight ahead. "When did you first decide you wanted… well, that fourth time to the shop, but this?"

Castiel murmured a word or two that were incomprehensible.

"Come on," Dean went, "Can't be worse than mine. Won't tease you or nothing – not unless you deserve it." Dean smiled as Castiel rose up to his eye level – the other man's face was grim.

"It's a long explanation. Complicated, hardly an entertaining thought in it. Besides, does it matter now?"

"I'm curious." Dean insisted. Castiel just looked pained. "Be honest. When I first came in to the shop, what did you think of me?"

Castiel sighed, like recounting his opinions would be a difficult ordeal. Slowly, he left Dean's embrace to lay beside him, slightly propped up by the pillows.

"I thought you were just some rowdy Italian prick." He paused, watching as Dean's eyes grew wide at the uncharacteristic frankness of Castiel's words. The other smiled in an innocent way. He leaned in closer to whisper against Dean's ear, "A boy too big for his boots. That's how it is for your sort. Think you can push me around just due to a gun; like I haven't ever been caught making eyes at a barrel before…" Castiel pursed his lips, like he was mad, and shut up for a second. Dean shuttered at some point during his speech; eyelids fluttering closed against the grit and hard inflections in Castiel's tone. But he was back now, and merely turned his head to press a kiss to the other's temple. "Anyway," he went on, "You were a prick." Dean laughed that time around. "And did I want to show you up. Saturday my brother works, but I told him I had to go make a point; can't afford to run away from any nasty customer that comes by." Castiel stopped again. Dean was still, enraptured in Castiel's presence. He now understood why he had shied away from answering the question; it wasn't a little sentence of insight – it was a complete recounting of Castiel's thoughts.

"Anyway," Castiel said again, rousing the both of them. He nudged Dean lightly, nodded towards the bedside table. "Light me up a cigarette will you?" Dean stretched over. "No, not _yours_, _mine._ Ah, forget it." He ended his commentary and stuffed Dean's factory packaged roll into his mouth, watching the other's hands flick open a lighter, kiss the tip and go out. Castiel sucked in a mouthful, blowing it out into the room. He sat back against the headboard, staring dazedly at his toes. "What was I saying?"

"How gorgeous I am," Dean supplied, lying on his side, looking like a prized example of smugness and pride and vanity all rolled into a single body of sin.

Castiel raised a brow, looking down at him. "Of course," he agreed, blowing out another cloud of smoke. "Dean Winchester, the gorgeous Italian prick." Dean laughed again at the profanity, spoken so seriously. "You wondered why I even bothered, correct? Truly though, if you're looking for a reason, it might be because of your brother." Dean gave him a curious look.

"Out of all the times you could be mentioning Sam," Castiel shrugged. "Okay, fine, what about him?"

"You felt a bit more polite and calm, when you brought your brother along. And I'm too hopeful to think so deeply around a guy like you. Five minutes go on and I see why you and Sam work together so well – you are family, and even Sam was nice. I began thinking that you could be that nice, too; if you wanted to be. Families are similar in that way, right?

"And the next time, after that, I thought maybe..." He contemplated his cigarette. "I don't even know _what_ I was thinking, talking to you like that. I wasn't expecting a response though, not really, that's for sure. The dreams in my head and the pieces of real life got all mixed up, I think, because of you." Dean reached for the half done cigarette, inhaling while Castiel closed his eyes, hands on his stomach. "You let me keep dreaming, that was one thing. From all our meetings, it felt like we were just friends – good friends, one I wanted to keep." He glanced over at Dean. "But then you'd look at me or touch me, and I'd remember… that's not what you wanted, was it?"

"It's not what you offered." Dean said.

"But you weren't happy with what you had."

"Well how could I be?" he said, shifting. "I mean," he nodded at Castiel. "When I knew that I could have more."

"Was this your idea of more?"

"No." Dean said, dead stub rolling on his fingers before he reached over and snuffed it on the ashtray on his side table. "I never knew I'd want this."

"We didn't have to end up this way, you know? I decided, that after you leaning over me when I was sick, I… I wanted that. Moreover, I wanted you, and you needed to know that. And when I told you,"

"Cute way of telling me," Dean grunted.

Castiel regarded him closely, spoke slowly. "If I told you, and you shot me down – If I kissed you and you hit me and spat at me and hated me, well, then I wouldn't have to be pining away for a year."

"I ran away," Dean pointed out, a rotten feeling set in his belly.

"You didn't run away because you didn't want to be with me, you ran away because you didn't know what else to do. You hesitated first, and _then_ you ran. But more important, you came back." his lips were only slightly upturned as he said that, his eyes crinkled – those were the only sign that Castiel had any age to him at all. Take away those and his scars and he might as well have been a walking statue. "And that's what matters."

Dean felt something stuck in his throat; Castiel stared at him with an expression that was nothing short of pure adoration; relief and thankfulness. Dean swallowed, feeling the same sort of overwhelming sensation that had him running away months ago. But he knew at the forefront of his mind; he wouldn't leave Castiel. Not now, not ever.

Not for anything.

**xxxx**

Dean's letters to Sam, like all of his notes, lacked any sort of formal finesse. He never followed what they had been taught in school; no _Miss _or _Sir_ or _To Whom it May Concern…_ The language wasn't for him – which was why his brother usually took up writing to landlords, bank tellers, or the occasional family that might have taken them in for a while, back when they were on the road.

Instead, Dean always started his letters with _Sam_. Or, if he was feeling more amused – what could also be interpreted as annoying – it'd be a _Sammy_.

The seventh day of September, Dean sat down and wrote, _Sammy, the funniest thing happened to me last week… _and he attempted to explain to his brother, living an impossible stretch of states away, who a man named Castiel Novak was.

"Are you going to tell him the truth?" Castiel asked, peering delicately over his shoulder, admiring the work. The writing was steady and clear; letters crunched together as if he was in a hurry, though there was truthfully nothing to do. It was just another late evening spent holed up in Dean's flat. An added touch of new scenery had rain pelting stubbornly against the windows.

Castiel had started to make a habit of coming over, albeit with difficulty, what with his heavy work schedule that sometime meant that they'd be separated for days at a time. Dean assured him that he didn't mind any of that – so long as he could still come by the shop and see him half the week. He was unwilling to admit that he had grown to crave Castiel's presence with alarming speed, and sometimes he would intentionally avoid visiting Castiel because of that, as if by depraving himself slightly he would regain some reassuring distance between the other man. He soon found that plan didn't work. In fact, it only served to miss him more for the stretches of time where they weren't in contact.

Whether Castiel wasn't fooled by Dean's occasional aloofness of him or was determined to see him just as often wasn't clear.

Dean looked over his shoulder to Castiel. "The truth? About us?"

"You have the dates wrong if you are," he supplied neutrally. He took his own seat at the table, shuffling through the collection of letters, this time not afraid to read through them. Dean hadn't moved to write more, so he looked up. "…He doesn't know, does he?"

"Know what?"

"About you. About – well, exactly who you've been with. He thinks you're regular."

Dean shuffled awkwardly in his chair. "Well most guys are." He put his pen down, rested his chin in his hands. "It's not exactly something to parade around, Cas."

"He's family. I thought nothing was higher than family in your mind."

"There isn't," Dean persisted.

"Then why lie?"

"I can't just break it to him that his older brother is a particular way when for his entire life he thought it was another. I mean," he waved an arm over to Castiel. "I know your brother and sister are alright with it, but – I don't know about Sam. I just… in a letter, too? How could I even _write_ that?" Castiel shrugged unhelpfully. "You upset?"

"No. Curious, I suppose. I figured Sam already knew, but – I mean there are some men who have wives, children, and still go out and… I wouldn't force you. He's not my brother to talk to."

"…Thanks." Dean said at length. "I do want to tell him about you – just," he let his words die, unsure of how to proceed.

"I'm a friend," Castiel finished. "You saw me and Alastair and just… re-write everything after that." Dean idly jotted a few more sentences down.

"Yeah, that sounds good."

After a few moments, Castiel spoke up again, "Do you want me to go over it, to make sure you didn't embellish anything way out of proportion?"

Dean looked over. "What makes you think I'd do that?" Castiel nodded to the letter.

"Contrary to what you're writing there I did not get out of that party with three thousand dollars." Dean rolled his eyes, crumpled up the paper.

"Yeah, okay."

**xxxx**

It was the end of September, but the summer weather marched on like it was trying to prove something: Warm days and clear skies persisted even as schools re-opened and the leisurely feeling of August left.

Admittedly, it wasn't the most unusual time for inspiration to strike.

Once again, Sam was to blame. His return letter from Dean's faux history with Castiel was just as upbeat; he congratulated Dean on making friends, as it were, and didn't seem to suspect that anything Dean told him was more than inside the normal bounds of questionable. In his stead, Sam described an excursion with Jess to an empty farmer's town, where they slept twenty feet away from livestock and walked through the orchards hand in hand. He wrote, _'It was like all those times we'd spend a week on some farm in the middle of nowhere. It's much better when you don't have to work, though.' _

Dean felt a sudden craving to leave the city.

He tried to mention it to Crowley, any trips that had to be made around Albany that he could do. Two days later, he found a note in his mail slot that stated he was scored a drop off and pick up; on the A fleet of cars would be going to Albany to transport several hundred gallons of Moonshine, and Dean, who was proving himself to be a more than capable chauffer when needed, could make the trip if he wished.

Well, that settled it. Not a day later, he asked Castiel over the table of his tailor shop if he had ever seen the Catskill Mountains before.

**xxxx**

**A/N: This chapter went through what could be called a Development Hell. Occasionally I like chapters that are merely a compilation of scenes over time and aren't very connected except in a thematic sense. However this installment was originally twice as long, and I realized that's just too many split up scenes. After going back and forth on it I finally had to cut it in half and attempt to streamline the remaining pieces into a more linear narrative. I apologize that it took me so long – real life is very harmful to my writing output. I have nothing to offer except the mention of characters that aren't Dean and Castiel. And sex, sort of. Just know that I've written quite a bit for other, future chapters during this little hellatus, and I would probably cry if I abandoned this story. I suppose the only trivial offer is the Catskill Mountains are beautiful, and Google images is a wonderful place to look.**


	15. Like a Tie Around the Tongue

On the morning of the 27th a black Ford drove onto the quiet road of Brighton 7th Street and crunched to a halt in front of the Novak's tailoring shop.

Dean Winchester, looking starched and pale in the early morning light, got out and didn't even make it to knocking on the shop's front door before Castiel pushed it open, small suitcase in hand.

Castiel was more enthralled by the car, only just muttering a hello before going over and peering at the waxed exterior like he had never had such an occasion before. Then again, perhaps he hadn't. Dean had spent a respectable amount of hours in the backseat of countless Model Ts, getting a lift from strangers across town and state lines, though it wasn't until getting to Brooklyn that he actually managed to find more of an interest in the things; the apparent epitomes of modern ingenuity and American spirit. He couldn't say Castiel was in the wrong for getting excited, exercising aspects of childlike curiosity and humble exploration, everything from the way he carefully trailed fingers around the hood of the car and tapped the glass of the windshield, standing at attention in a spick and span suit like it was his first Sunday afternoon drive in the family's car. Dean was endeared to it, even moreso when he knew that neither of them had those sorts of memories lurking in the past anyway.

Presently, Anna and Gabriel emerged, dressed for the workday. Dean watched the pair while they, in turn, looked over at their brother.

When Dean had sprung the question to Castiel the week before, the reaction had been immediate: "Yes. Of course." It seemed an afterthought that he'd have to explain his impromptu vacation to his family – such spontaneity might have been Dean's influence, and he wasn't sure whether to be smug or worried about it.

"Don't let him drive that," Anna said by way of greeting. She squinted at her brother. "No matter _what_ he bribes you with." Dean glanced over at Castiel.

"He hasn't driven before, I'm guessing."

"He hasn't been inside a car before," Gabriel said. Dean smiled at the purposefully exaggerated tone the other used; Gabriel _did_, in fact, have a sense of humor. Sometimes; or at least some manner of appropriately responding to vague irony. The pair of them went to concentrating on Dean.

"How long will you be away?" Anna asked.

"Till Sunday night. Like he told you, I assumed."

"Have you done this sort of run before?" Dean rubbed his neck.

"Once or twice."

"The same route?"

"I've been up around Albany a few times."

"Recently?"

"How soon is recent?" Dean went. "…No. Not for a few years."

"Great." She looked past his head. Dean wasn't positive the content of Castiel's retelling of their excursion to the Capitol; hopefully the other man hadn't said much, but the way they were talking to him seemed to imply that for all that they trusted Castiel to make his own decisions, Dean was still scrutinized.

"He's never been outside the city. Not since we came here, at least." Gabriel said.

"Have you two?"

"No," Anna said. "That's why we worry." It was hard for Dean to gather sympathy for the family, with the fact that he had traveled more in the first years of his childhood than most people did in a lifetime.

"He won't be on the actual site. You know, while we load up. I told him as much. He just parks himself somewhere for a few hours and I come back."

"And if you don't?" Anna said.

"They're not prone to accidents up there. Hasn't been a bust in months."

"Almost too good to be true," Gabriel supplied. He stepped a bit closer to Dean. "We decided not to bore you with the obvious warning."

"Obvious?" Dean echoed, confused.

"He means the custom of reminding you that if you were to do something to our brother you won't have your legs anymore." Anna offered. Their faces were set stonily in place. Not that Dean was unused to getting warnings like that from some concerned parent or sibling when he had gone out on dates, but the petite woman and short man before him somehow managed to put him more on edge than most other threatening parties he had come across.

"Duly noted." Dean said. "I guess I'd be saying something similar if it was my brother with…" he flubbed for a moment. "Never mind."

"Right. Well then," Anna looked past Dean and smiled sweetly at Castiel, looking on at them. Gabriel likewise broke out into a grin.

Dean shivered.

They both waved at their departing brother, and Castiel slipped into the front passenger seat, staring at his family with the same type of joyful expression. When Dean slammed the door of the driver's side shut and fell into his spot, he merely tossed an exhausted look over at the other man.

"What is it?" he asked. Dean shook his head and started the car with a rumble.

"You have one of the… _strangest_ families I have ever met." He blinked. "And I'm _counting_ mine."

**xxxx**

The Catskill Mountains were thrust up around the middle of New York, a hundred miles from the city and about forty southwest of Albany. Dean had been once when he was a child, another time on a move from Hartford to Philadelphia, though he couldn't say he was going back for nostalgia – he didn't recall the place from either time. The effort of driving half the day was more of a need to feel out new scenery; one with more green than gray, more rolling hills than flat land and skyscrapers. He had spent half his life on the road anyway, and the urge was certainly there. He and Sam had made plans to take trips outside the neighborhood, though those had rarely held through, what with unpredictable job calls and the trouble of not owning a car. And trains were all well and good of course, but they didn't tend to make stops in a forest.

New York had the eeriest way of making people stay in the same few street blocks all their life.

But Crowley, at least, owned a fleet of automobiles – and with those came freedom. Every time Dean had the chance to drive one of the pristine Fords he was left with a greater appreciation for them and the line of innovation that set them forth.

He and Castiel spent much of the drive in a polite silence. The other man hardly seemed bored, staring out the windows with wide eyes at every little town and city, at the small acreage of farms and the long stretches of nothing at all. The drive was lulling, soothing; though when they stopped at a diner for lunch in Ellenville, they both took a moment to stretch before heading inside.

Dean and Castiel sat next to each other at the lunch counter; there was some odd placed relief in having to support their own posture on the wooden stools, after a few hours of leaning into the upholstery of a car seat. They both asked for clubs and Coke from a hefty waitress who seemed to be at least half asleep, slurring the repetition of their orders as she scribbled something down on a notepad with too much of a flourish to produce anything but a set of waitress-only recognizable symbols. It didn't stop Dean from beaming up at the older woman like her mere presence had somehow managed to make his day lousy with joy and good fortune.

"How you folks doing?" She asked disinterestedly.

"Not too bad," Dean's pleasant expression was laid on thick. Castiel, not used to the look, was staring at him. He couldn't even think to stop it; that was just how he was around women – even without the intention of flirting with one. "Say, can you tell me how the weather is making out for the next few days?"

"Vacationing?"

Dean shook his head. "More of a far-off work site. But if there's time," he shrugged, as if to imply a vague, up in the air proposal of what the two of them would do in their free time away.

"Well you're in luck." She tucked the paper pad into a pocket in her dress and the stub of a pencil behind her ear. "Weather's s'posed to be as good as Mexico this week. No rain, no clouds, decent wind. Perfect for a business trip."

"I'll get a few hours off if it kills me," Dean said amiably. The waitress waddled away, pushing open the swinging doors into the kitchen. Dean turned back to Castiel, as if about to relay the news like it was a novel concept.

After a moment Castiel just snorted at Dean's beguiling look that he inferred was more of an unconscious trait; Castiel understood, at least. And that was nice; letting someone figure out a few things about him every once in a while.

As they waited, they casually glanced around at the more specific details of their surroundings, having the benefit of not barreling past everything at forty miles an hour. There wasn't much to see. The restaurant, along with the rest of Ellenville, seemed to have the stagnant air of a tourist town in the off season. There were only a handful of other patrons, looking too run-of-the-mill to be anything but local residents. So instead they turned back to one another, and Castiel opened his mouth to say something of consequence for the first time in nearly two hours.

"How long are we staying?" he asked.

"Up here?" Castiel nodded, and Dean leaned more on the table, his hand cradling his head. "Well, it's not fifty miles to the mountains from here, and I asked a few friends who've been by these parts, so I have a rough idea of where to head after we run out of road. We got tonight, tomorrow, and Sunday morning we… well, _I_ have to run off, get some work done." They both knew exactly what _work_ meant.

"Will I take a train back from there, then?"

"No!" Dean coughed when he saw a few sets of eyes shift to the pair of newcomers. "I mean, I wasn't going to do that," he carried in a quieter fashion. "Albany's not like Brooklyn, but it's big enough that no one will mind seeing you there. It'll only take a few hours, and you can stay in a smaller part of the city, amuse yourself – I can give you some money to spend while you wait,"

"I don't need your money," Castiel interrupted. It was a point Dean was willing to pass over; from what he was able to tell, Castiel's shop was financially self-sustaining, even as word spread that Wall Street and its patrons weren't doing too hot as of late. Dean, who had hardly come into contact with brokers in his life, was finicky on whether to wait out the suspicion or be worried. Though even if he lost half his investments, he had most of his savings stuffed in more tangible places. "We can meet somewhere when it's all over. By a certain house or at a street corner. I'll pick you up, and then we'll drive back home. We should be back late Sunday, early Monday." The same waitress came back with a full platter balanced on her hand. She paused between the two of them, set them up with their plates and glasses, and wandered away to one of the few occupied seats.

Castiel contemplatively bit into his sandwich. "You certainly are a fan of playing things by ear, aren't you?" He said after a moment. Dean toyed with his soda glass, watching beads of condensation roll down onto the glossy wood of the counter.

"It's more fun that way, I suppose."

Halfway through eating conversation was struck up again: "Ever camp out before?" Dean said slowly. He hadn't formally asked, though he presumed that one couldn't spend much time in wilderness if they had never left one of the largest cities of the modern world.

"Camping?" Castiel echoed. "…I guess so. Not really anything fun, at the time."

Dean smiled, curiosity piqued, though when Castiel didn't elaborate immediately he merely settled for saying, "Most of my camping trips weren't exactly _fun_, either."

"I suppose that's true." Castiel glanced out the wide windows of the diner, made to showcase an impressive party of happy, middle-classed Americans that would be observed on either side of the showcase glass during the right time of year. Now it merely showed the pastel colored shops, small street sides, and battered cars, parked on the curb. The sky was a cloudless blue that made Dean's eyes wince without even staring at the sun. Castiel specifically nodded to their car. "That's why you had all those things in there then, right?" he was referring to the bunch of quilts and a tarp that had been folded and piled in the backseat.

"Right," Dean replied. "I figured a tent wouldn't be practical, since this was more of a lucky chance; we wouldn't be able to fit that, and… anything else in there, too."

Castiel hummed. "I imagine we wouldn't be cut out for long term country life." Dean raised his eyebrow.

"We both grew up in the country."

"I wouldn't exactly be excited to move back, either." Castiel admitted candidly. "We didn't have a lot of things even some of the poorest Americans have here." Dean nodded, letting the brief statement be. Even if Castiel was willing to talk more about his time before America, the publicity of where they sat, combined with its dull suburbanite setting made it an unseemly place to do so.

"Lucky it's just a few days then," Dean supplied.

"A small amount of time in the greenwood would be a welcome change, I think; going out to explore with the knowledge that you can go as deep into the wild as you want, and come back out when you're ready."

"Sort of like _Walden_," Dean mused, taking a sip of his drink.

"…Excuse me?"

"It's a book. David something-or-other, who went out with his friends into the woods? You know, '_I sat at a table with rich food and wine in abundance, but sincerity and truth were not, and I went away hungry from the inhospitable board.' _Or something like that." Castiel still watched him intensely, like his paraphrase of a novel had set forth a whole new battlefield of problems for him. "What?" Dean groused. "I read." He turned back to his plate, and Castiel, after a moment, turned back to his.

"…_'There was a man in my neighborhood who lived in a hollow tree,_'" Castiel added in a humorous voice. He was smiling. "_'His manners were truly regal_.'"

**xxxx**

They set off again, out of Ellenville in a click. Not long after that, the roads started to disappear. Sometimes there were gravel paths instead, or dirt ways that went on for a few miles. Out past the fields an expanse of color slowly began to emerge, and if Dean wished for a chattier companion, the desire would have been completely ignored as Castiel practically pressed himself into the window glass.

Castiel had never left the city; Dean suddenly had the notice slip into his mind again, adding a type of clarity for him. _Castiel had never left the city_. Not since coming over by boat in 1920. In fact, Dean was willing to bet that he hadn't seen anything larger than perhaps Prospect – _maybe_ Central Park, if his family were being adventurous. He had never seen even a glimpse, an implication of American wilderness. Not even once.

Subconsciously, Dean pressed on the gas pedal just a little more, hearing the wheels crunch over dust and rocks. The Ford would need a good washing before it went back to his boss, that was for sure. But the vehicles were built as best they could, racing steadily through approaching trees. They were on the cusp of it now, and there was a large splash of flatland a little farther down that they could pull into; hidden away just so, right before the vegetation became too thick to pass through except on feet.

The clearing burst into sight; front and center, sharp and crisp. Dean blinked at the bright shoots of afternoon sunlight bearing down on them. There was a plethora of colors that had escaped both men for much too long. What had been the dark green of field grasses on their trip was much too uniform for the mass of sugar maples, moosewood, birches, oaks, and evergreens. Half the forest was in the throes of shifting from the sticky hues of spring and summer, going instead into a slow death by the colors of fire embers. And while changing leaves weren't necessarily anything special when observed by the occasional potted plant on a street corner or in a park, there was an overwhelming, gaping expanse to the woods, as if they had not so much as driven into such a place as tumbled down a rabbit hole and found themselves in another world altogether.

Because what was in front of them was more beautiful than the most dedicated gardener; painstakingly lying out row after row of planned and proper shrubs and flowers. Nature was flippant in how it appeared, and yet it was in the way that everything merely existed, in the way that it had to go through a lifetime of development, of growing and dying and growing again - that mattered. If Art was, in fact, measured by how it stood the test of time, then Nature would always be the victor, whether it was appreciated by people or not.

_A place without people_, Dean thought; just the two of them in splendid isolation, where they would be able to stay out for two nights, removed from anyone, anything; common amenities as well as annoyances; consequences. Hardly a thing to do but talk and take their time, hike through the edges of rock that surrounded them at the base of the valley they were parked in. Natural life did not care about the two of them. They would go through the unmarked paths together, do whatever pleased them, and when they left, none would be the wiser; greenery covering up their past there.

To Dean, it wasn't unlike letting an outer skin of himself peel away; letting him go through the very real past of when lying out under the stars had been the option of the day or week or more, not because it was fun but because there was too much distance between one town and the next, or they couldn't find a roof to put above their heads. Now, of course, it was different, but yet some sort of charm took over and let him forget how much more comfortable sleeping on a mattress was.

The main catch in his plan of course, was Castiel. He was looking around in his seat, hands in his lap, too polite to move and get out even when Dean finally, _finally_, put the car in park and shut the engine down with a sputtering sigh. Everything was quiet again, like it should be.

"Wanna look around?" he asked, and the pair of them were off like shots; peeling away their jackets and leaving them behind in the man-made contraption. Going around to peer into the underbrush around them.

The air was still hot, the low hanging sun seeping through the white cotton shirts they wore and heating their backs; the clearing was moist earth covered in wild grass and ferns, while the shade of the trees saw a raised incline, covered in a few discarded leaves and sediment and rocks. There was the faint sound of water, bubbling somewhere out of sight in a way that brought together buzzing cicadas and the occasional squawk of a high flying bird. There were no roads here; no way to direct themselves back from the point, but they weren't scared about that; the thought of getting lost in a place of untamed beauty seemed more and more like an ideal concept of leave. And so without a word, without a single spoken question, they were venturing off into the forest without once looking back.

**xxxx**

Exploration took two hours, and still they had hardly made a dent in what amounted to their campsite.

They sat on the grass, leaning up against the hide of the car. Off in the distance they saw a capsized tree sticking out of the mud; its bark striped away and leaving it bone white. The only dead and lifeless looking thing for miles.

"These mountains span five counties, I think," Dean said. They were eating orchard peaches from an opened can, passing it back and forth as they picked out bright orange slices, letting the sweet preserve juice drip down their hands. It was hardly an appropriate dinner, but then again what they were doing was hardly appropriate. Wandering off from their family and friends and work like they were able to escape. "You know, they say that before Europeans came here centuries ago, a squirrel could climb up one tree from the East Coast and not need to get down again till it reached the Mississippi River." Castiel laughed, a free, bright sound that seemed anything but polite – and Dean loved it, watching the white of Castiel's teeth flash from his lips.

"I never thought America could look like this." He said after some time. He licked the tips of his fingers, wet with juice.

"You've never looked in an Atlas before?"

"Those are just maps and a few drawings. Black and white, too. It couldn't do any of this justice." He gestured to the vegetation surrounding them.

"I guess it's hard to imagine that," Dean said. "Seeing it all before, I mean, I wouldn't know."

"I reckon you've seen more of America than what's typical."

"That's true. Anything from corn fields in Kansas to clubs in New Orleans to Brooklyn to… here. You're hardly bored when you're traveling, I'll tell you that much." Castiel hummed thoughtfully.

"Do you get bored in the city?"

"Hardly with you around." Castiel touched a hand to his cheek, which temporarily flushed from Dean's words.

"Do you think we can go swimming tomorrow?" he inquired.

"Do you know how?"

"To swim? Well I know how to not _drown_ – just don't get your head wet."

"You get a cold that way."

"That's what you say – I call that drowning before your day. I've been in plenty of watering holes. Well, a few, at least. Enough to know what I'm talking about."

"And if I push you under?"

"Then I run back to the car and leave you behind."

"You can't drive this," Dean touched the metal behind them. "Your family made me promise not to let you."

"Did they also tell you to make sure nothing happened to me? I assume drowning counts as something."

He nudged Castiel playfully. "Well lucky for you, _I_ know how to swim. I'll save you."

"It would be much easier if you didn't have to worry about saving me at all," he countered.

Dean sighed exaggeratedly. "All _right_. We'll go swimming tomorrow. What about shooting?"

"For food?"

"For fun."

"…I've never equated using a gun with anything but a chore." Castiel replied neutrally. He let out a yawn, clasping a hand to his mouth.

"We'll figure it all out tomorrow," Dean said. "Planning's for mugs. Come on then," he slowly got to his feet, though before he had straightened up totally Castiel reached an arm out.

"Help me," he said.

"_So_ needy," Dean teased, hauling him halfway before the other man stumbled into place beside him. They didn't have a tent – if it were to rain they would squeeze into the car. But the night was clear, just as their waitress had predicted earlier. Their blankets were stuffed around them, a thick tarp underneath to keep them from getting wet from the grass. The pair of them stripped down to cotton shorts before slipping under a handful of covers. There'd be no chance they'd get a chill, even when the air had cooled down some in the dark.

The night sky hung above them in its quiet, mesmerizing way, as usual. Not needing to perform any special trick to have both men silent and watching. Every star and constellation in the universe seemed to be on display that night.

"I haven't seen this many stars for nearly ten years," Castiel murmured.

"I was seventeen nearly ten years ago." Dean thought out loud. "Funny to think that we were looking at the same sky, even all the way across the world, right?"

Castiel was quiet for a little while, then he said, "Yes. I suppose it is."

The Mountains fell silent once more.

**xxxx**

The morning saw them eating another inappropriate meal – bread and butter with apples this time, which they cut up into slices with Dean's pocket knife. The sun shone on their faces in an unmated, pure way. Afterwards Dean had gone to the trunk of the car, leaning inside the cool, dark interior.

He flipped a latch near the back of the trunk, revealing a hidden compartment at the bottom of the carrier. Most of Crowley's cars had hidden lock boxes to keep guns. They came in handy when there was a border to cross. Dean took out a Winchester model 20, an older, single-barreled shotgun. It was a two-slug, manual reload; that old-world slowness of unautomatic guns and the obvious size of it meant that it was only kept in Dean's collection for the sake of target practice. He offered it to Castiel. "You ever use one of these before?"

"Unfortunately." He examined it for a moment. "Gabriel has a rifle similar to this – we keep it behind the desk during work."

Dean couldn't say he was surprised, though besides the one that might have been concealed in Balthazar's coat months earlier, he had never seen anyone in Castiel's particular circle carry any weapons.

The other man looked at him in a scrutinizing way, as if trying to decipher his thoughts.

Finally Dean threw him a bone and went, "Ever get any practice?" Castiel drew a flash of teeth and let out a gust of air, not totally removed from a laugh; as if not believing what Dean was implying.

"What would I do –"

"Protection. Same as anything else." Dean shut the trunk. "So you mean you've never had to use a gun? Not for back home? Not for neighborhood watches?"

Castiel looked rather exasperated. "I've _carried_ guns, Dean. Shot a few, but I never was trying to hurt anybody. Not on purpose. I mean, I…" he wiped at his mouth, looking away, preoccupied with the far off, dead oak tree half sunk into the flooded part of the field.

Dean chewed his lip for a second, trying to think of what to say. "Didn't mean to upset you," he murmured. He reached to take the gun back.

Castiel looked to him. He didn't let go of the rifle. "It's okay." He looked down to it; the metal winked in the sun. "I suppose that being a gangster brings the opportunities for enemies to arise, yes?"

"You'd be right." Dean said.

"Then being practiced in, as you say, 'protecting myself' might be a wise decision." He no longer looked angry anymore but more considering. Like he was attempting to answer a logistical problem. The bow of his mouth was stuck in a jutted position, and Dean longed to kiss it versus doing anything practical. He had mentioned shooting last night; it was hardly a primary reason for coming out to a secluded spot, but the more he thought on the fact that Castiel was determined to stay with him, he wanted to at least try and offer the other man some sort of leverage that most other people Dean cared about didn't have; if he knew how to shoot, he argued, then perhaps he could better defend himself. Castiel had already proved himself knowledgeable on many fronts; the nature of Dean's job especially. He still hadn't forgotten Castiel's theory of why Crowley had invited the both of them to that rather unfortunate poker game; it wasn't shrewd to voice any notice of it to his boss of course, but he always made time nowadays to scan for certain big-time names in the papers, following Castiel's own methods of reconnaissance.

He watched as Castiel broke open the breech, saw it was already loaded with two shots, and marched a few paces South – towards the bleached tree. And before Dean could bother to tell him the basics; keep the muscles in your arms relaxed but firm, to breathe evenly, expect a recoil – the shot was echoing through the hills, sending a few birds scattering out of their nests. He saw a large splash of muddy water get displaced by the base of the tree, splattering some of the stripped bark an ugly brown. Castiel had been close; frighteningly close. He glanced back, and saw Dean's arms folded across his chest in a closed off manner. He turned and fired a second shot that managed to hit the bark of the tree. If it had been a man he had been firing at, it would have hit right between the eyes.

The birds had gone quiet; even the wind seemed to have faded and gone away. Castiel's stance was practiced, rigid in discipline. He was slow to move his arms down and let his feet plant themselves properly on the ground. After a moment he murmured something, then turned back to Dean.

"What was that?" Dean asked, not sure if he was addressing the shots or whatever phrase the other had whispered.

"_'You can't drink away your skill_,'" he repeated numbly. He walked back, handed Dean's gun to him. "I truly didn't expect to be that good," he wiped his palms on his trousers. "Though I suppose that my job supports a decent hand-eye relationship, if nothing else."

"I'll say." Dean wasn't quite sure whether to ask _where_, exactly, Castiel had learned to shoot a man in the head from twenty feet away, or if he ought to just wait for Castiel to say something himself. Making some social faux pas was bearable when you could both go back to your homes and simmer down for a few days, but out here there was nowhere to go – or perhaps too many places. "Suppose I don't have to teach you anything." Castiel shrugged, clearly wanting to be done with the subject at hand. Dean churned up an unnerved smile, trying not to feel sick. "Just don't go using any of your skillset on me, alright?"

He expected a humored expression, or at least a nod of the head. Instead Castiel went slightly pale and adopted an astonished look, as if Dean had just struck him.

"I…" he swallowed, and turned back towards where the clearing ended, and trees scattered across the base of the mountain. "Sorry, I suppose that's a touchy subject." He quickly sauntered past Dean, back towards the car. He rifled around the back seat, and Dean heard the audible clicks of a suitcase being opened. After a moment Castiel reappeared with a thin book in one of his hands. He looked composed once more; that same, neutral expression Dean was seeing less and less of nowadays. But the fingers holding the spine of the book were trembling, the joints white from stiffly grabbing on.

"Do you mind if I go out again, for an hour or so?" Dean glanced down at the tome, then back up to Castiel. He hated the fact that he had made Castiel want to run away, and in such a place that both felt trapped together with no place of lasting reprieve. "I'll come back soon, I just – our family's used to –"

"You don't have to say anything, Cas." Dean interrupted quietly. He nodded towards the forest. "You go. I'm the one who should be sorry; bothering you and all that."

"…It wasn't you," Castiel supplied at length, before turning back and vanishing into the trees.

**xxxx**

With the pressure of nearly two hours of Castiel's absence and Gabriel and Anna's warnings to him, Dean finally trekked out in the direction Castiel had went. Dean had stalked around in the immediate places of the field, but that only left the mud of the swamp and that damned tree, and a few patches of sun-warmed stone and shrubs. Deep inside the forest was cool, and Dean went with the easiest available route among more widely spaced foliage and lower rocks. The beauty of the mountains hadn't been lost. As the incline got a bit steeper and Dean had to hold onto the thin branches of low hanging arms to help himself over obstacles, he noted that even the ground was a lush, golden brown color. That or covered in stone. Once he heard a rustling in a nearby brush and stopped. "Cas?" he asked, before stepping forward onto a snapping twig.

A young stag emerged instead from the brambles. Its lithe figure suggesting that it had been born that spring. It sniffed the air, its large, brown eyes settling on the outsider that was Dean before scampering off into higher grounds. He hadn't seen deer in years, either. And as he resumed walking, Dean likened the stroll – the search, rather – perhaps as an odd convergence point of present day to childhood. Or, at least a time when childhood might have occurred, if he were so lucky.

Not that much later he found a small stream. There were waterbugs that dotted the surface, and minnows that made themselves scarce anytime his shadow passed over the brook. The sound of the stream sucking at the base of pebbles and flowing through the large sticks stuck in his path got steadily louder, the stream wider, until eventually he had to cross over a conveniently overturned log and head across to the other side, where the now small river turned and led out into another opening. This one resembling more of a marsh with its foot tall grasses and onion sprouts. The river went around the circular space, flowing downwards in the direction of their now far off campsite, splashing down boulders and into a series of pools on a sharp jut down towards flat land, where a pond awaited.

Across the way, Castiel sat underneath a gnarled oak, knees drawn up and book balancing on his thighs. He was on a rock that seemed a more plentiful part of the ground than anything else in the nearby vicinity. Even as Dean walked through the grasses towards him he noticed how pieces of stone would be visible here in there, and the grass became uprooted by his very step. Most of the rain water probably fell out of the dirt and drained into the stream; it was a miracle of nature that a tree in such a place managed to survive long enough to become twisted and ancient.

Castiel looked up from his novel as Dean got closer. "Hello," he said, as if he were greeting a stranger. Dean sat cross-legged beside him and stared around. "It's been a bit longer hasn't it?"

"Not too much longer."

"I should have guessed when I got half done." He wordlessly showed Dean a hawk's feather he had presumably picked up somewhere, before putting it into his book as a page marker. "Found this place by accident."

"You find a good amount of things by accident out here, I think."

Castiel quirked his lips. "I found a pool."

"I saw."

"We can go swimming."

"We can," Dean agreed. "Do you want to?" Castiel worried his lip, drawing into himself.

"…Dean, I know I already apologized for going off… I don't know what came over me then; guns hardly bothered me before but, I think being outside, all the way out here, makes it different." Dean could see Castiel's eyelashes, dark shadows against his cheeks, as he stared out at the green expanse around them. "It's beautiful out here, but it's… dangerous. In a different way than a city is."

Dean leaned back thoughtfully. The bright lines of sunlight drifting through the picturesque scenery hardly seemed sinister; in fact, the tranquility he felt outside could have been taken as something too good to be true. There was a type of removal in a forest; no lights, no housing, being detached from modern technology.

"Not _here_, I suppose," Castiel muttered after a while. "It's a ridiculous thing of course, but – "

"Is it about home?" Dean asked.

Castiel's face went to stone. He frowned, turned his head slightly, his features now totally obscured from Dean.

"No." Dean strained his ears to hear the word. "It's about _Russia_… and before I came here." He slowly glanced back to Dean, letting out a half-hearted laugh; "It's awful that it bothered me here. What's worse is that I figured to myself that… that I'd tell you about it. That I'd tell you everything."

Dean regarded him for a moment. "You don't have to." He said finally, getting up. He reached out a hand to Castiel, offering to pull him up.

Castiel looked at him, eyes flicking down to the other's open palm. "What?"

"I said you don't have to. Not if it's something you don't want to say." Castiel grabbed Dean's hand after a moment of contemplation, rising with his novel left behind on the rock. Dean moved a few paces, out towards the drop off where the river began to slope downwards. "Don't get me wrong, Cas. I'd like to – love to hear anything about you," Dean's lips curled up as he spoke, finally letting go of the other's hand as they were poised at the edge of the wading pools. "But I think I know enough that I don't have to learn everything else – I doubt anything, whatever it is, would change how you are to me."

"I'm not so sure about that," Castiel murmured after a moment.

"Well lucky for you, you don't have to be." He leaned down, taking off his shoes, socks, setting them off to the side. "Come on," he said, "You wanted to go swimming, right?"

Castiel looked over to water; clear all the way to the black granite bottom of the pool. He laughed again, closer to the whimsical note of when they first arrived. "Dean…" his eyes were shining as he turned to look at the other, already half undressed. He shook his head, as if to clear the thought from his mind. Instead he watched Dean go into the water; gooseflesh prickled at his arms and neck before he began to complain about the frigidness. As a tall shot of cold golden skin, naked in the water, Dean beckoned to Castiel as he cocked his head. It was less of the curious gesture the other would make on occasion; this was impudent – a suggestive question, in fact. Watching the river bank, Dean attempted to guess Castiel's thoughts, only succeeding because he recognized what the opposite emotion would have been – Castiel was _relieved_; thankful of Dean's forced aloofness. His reaction could have very easily been mistaken for apathy, but that wasn't the motive for his claim that Castiel's past may remain mysterious. He was burning to know in truth, but was able to accept that certain installments of one's life were meant to be kept in the dark. He had a handful himself, though when someone told him they were unimportant to know, they were more disinterested than respectful of his privacy.

But Castiel understood that Dean understood, and he was soon unbuttoning his shirt – mechanically shucking off clothing until he dumped all materials on the grass and waded into the water as well, watching Dean dunk his head and come up gasping from the cold. When he rubbed the water from his eyes, Castiel was watching him still, an adoring turn to his smile.

"Won't push me under, will you?" he teased.

Dean splashed him, and got a rather large feeling of gratification from it. He wasn't expecting Castiel to return the favor, hard enough to actually catch him coughing up water and mouthing 'You bastard,' once or twice.

The cold mountain water was a relaxant, if one were to believe the magazine articles advocating a rented cottage in Vermont or Maine. Dean didn't believe a word of it, but the water _was_ persistently refreshing, on all fronts. Enough to have the pair of them take turns fooling about, swimming and playfully shoving the other like they were children, and shed their problems as easily as their city-made clothes, laid bare in comfortable vista where nothing was set to go wrong.

They dozed in the water for an hour or so, kissing away the tears the freshwater made on their cheeks and neck. The sun was in their eyes, about three-quarters through with its trip across the sky, when they flopped back out onto dry land. It took an embarrassingly long time to get all their clothes back on – to the point where when they actually managed to get dressed, they laid back in the grass, unwilling to go from where they came, losing their special spot forever amidst the green.

"You must miss it sometimes," Dean said quietly, into the field. "You wouldn't have said yes to come here if you didn't."

"How do you mean?" Castiel asked.

"You've never been to a city your entire life until you came here, and you haven't left it for nine years. So there must be some part of you that enjoys this."

"Oh," Castiel conceded. "You mean lying out here like this?"

"The simplicity of it. Even a _vacation_, god, Cas. I thought you guys do well."

"We do. It's just… a necessary part of running business, I suppose. We don't take long vacations, really. We get days off, but that means that you cook and clean the flat, then. I wouldn't know what to do if I wasn't working, or…" he pushed himself up on his elbows, staring at Dean. "…Something else." He focused on the abyss around them. "It would be nice, though, to come out here for a few days, not do anything."

"Like now?"

"Like now."

Dean was quiet again for a bit. "People like you, Cas," he continued, "deserve to have everything they ever wanted. It's not fair sometimes, you know? There are people out there who have enough of anything to do everything, and they just walk around complaining. And then there are people like you, who've worked their whole lives and get hardly anything back; nothing's handed to _you_." He stretched his legs on the grass. "Anything you want should be yours by now. If I had any say in it."

There was a small ruffling sound and Dean looked over – Castiel had moved and rolled onto Dean, straddling him and looking down. Nothing mischievous about the look, just the regular contentment; his eyes brighter than even the sun above their heads. He leaned down, mouth parting a bit as if he was about to say something, but Dean stole a long, drawn out kiss before he could force words out.

They pulled back and Castiel's breath –welcome and warm on his cheek – puffed out a laugh. "You might be unaware Dean,"

"Unaware of what?"

There was that _look_ again, it was an almost there smile, like Castiel was trying to hide it but the expression just burned too bright to keep down. Sometimes it was even better than the toothy grins he got from the man, because such hidden looks meant that something involved was happening, like Castiel had fought for that telltale twitch of his lips.

He spoke finally.

"As of right now, I have everything I have ever dreamed of."

**xxxx**

With the remainder of the day spent together, Dean was forced to come to terms with a thought that had plagued him not so soon after the two of them had gotten on friendly terms in the first place: There was something about Castiel that was wholly and incomparably different than the rest of the world. Where Dean had once thought that Castiel and the efforts required to attain him likened him to womankind, his phlegmatic disposition and rugged strength and knowledge proved him wrong. When he thought of him as a typical man, his intelligence and capacity for compassion over went that, and when he ventured to call Castiel a gentleman, brought about not despite of his past but because of his want to distance himself from it, he had to note that no respectable man of the world would be caught, like this, poured over one of his lesser companions in the middle of a green field in a natural state.

He was more tuned to an enigma, then, and Dean wanted him all the more for it. He strived to see Castiel smile and laugh and yet his pensive stare and broodiness were just as captivating. When he talked he sparked interest and thought; when he remained silent, still Dean could note his presence as a dominating force. He was gentle, only if he wished to be, and he seemed to know every ounce of information possible, until all of a sudden he tilted his head and turned into a curious onlooker, waiting for Dean to educate him.

Together they walked through the forests, in a practicing vigil or making enough noise to scare off all the animals around them. They helped each other cross brooks and go up sharp curves in the mountain, and when they paused by a deep fall to drink they would lean against each other and brush hands and hips, not necessarily because they could, but because it only felt normal to be so close.

Getting back was a more difficult endeavor; all their past knowledge had been blurred with city life, but they managed to shuffle down without much incident and reappear half a mile from their campsite, just in time to watch the early sunset.

Around them everything seemed endless and golden as they stretched back out into their sleeping place. Indian summer was forgiving to them, and even when the sun disappeared and the air cooled, they didn't need to hide under anything but the cover that night provided, as they kissed and touched and undressed one another in patient, slow-building lust. The irrational paranoia of getting caught made them shiver, though that could hardly dissuade them. Not as they moved together with fingers and lips, sweat and skin lining about along the curves of their bodies. Not when Castiel slid into Dean for the first time, hardly nervous as they contemplated the one another in a sort of fond wonder. Or even when all of that added up and saw Dean arching into Castiel's mouth, one hand buried in the damp earth and the other twisted at the low set hairs on Castiel's neck, back hot and wet and quivering as he succumbed to the all encompassing powers of the other, erotic enough to make even his shoulders twitch in climax. And Dean took all sensation bestowed upon him like it was a baptism, being reborn all over again as his heart slowed, breath evened out, and hands went limp into the moist wetness of the earth.

After, Castiel rinsed the both of them off with stream water. And Dean, still hazy and too satiated to do much else, kissed any part of the other that he could reach, completely content until the moment caught up with him and he laughed in pure euphoria, then praised Castiel for many things, one of which for being a fast learner.

At that Castiel smiled again, touched Dean's forehead with his lips. "I suppose I do have the best teacher," he teased, before pulling Dean towards him to sit between his legs. They watched the stars again, and Dean slowly came back to himself. He could still feel the warmth of limbs, but it was a comfort now, not a scorching fire, and not a passion. And yet he yearned for both experiences of the flesh all the same; Castiel's versatility continued. An arm went around Dean's stomach and Dean merely grasped the fingers there. He let his other hand rest on Castiel's leg, and he leaned his neck back far enough to see the dome of the celestial-dressed sky and touch the back of his head to Castiel's bare shoulder.

And for a short while, he was at peace.

When they had stayed still for as long as they could manage, and both had to work on not drifting to sleep, Dean went,"Cas?"

There was an affirmation somewhere just above him; Castiel's scruff was brushing against his ear. "I…" he pulled at his lips, furrowing his eyes. Everything felt just right; those climactic moments you got once in a while, the seconds before the thunder rolled through, the moment when the final punch lands in a fight; he could practically smell it, but Dean couldn't find it in himself to say anything. _I love you_, he yelled in his mind, wishing that his tongue would pick up the words, or that Castiel would hear his thoughts.

"What is it?" Castiel murmured into his hair, and Dean closed his eyes and sighed at the feeling. And not only that, but the notion he had just managed to identify only moments ago, when his mind was quiet and he wasn't keen on lying to himself. _I could spend the rest of my life like this._ He thought. _With you. I was going through life half awake before I had you, Castiel. I love you I love you I love…_

"Thanks." He felt the words come out of his mouth; a huge mistake. Cowardice on his part. "For coming with me. I haven't been out of the city for a long time."

_Cas.._. He shifted, trying to will the words to appear; he didn't get it. He missed the shot. But Castiel _had_ to know what he meant – he knew everything. Castiel ran a few fingers through Dean's hair again and kissed his temple. And as he did that Dean slammed his eyes shut and tried to forget about how close he came to…

Something.

**xxxx**

Dean woke up before Castiel the next morning, possibly because of the cricks in his neck jarring him from comfort. He let Castiel curl further into the blankets; the top ones slightly damp from the morning dew that rolled down the hills, making Dean's socks squish and shoes stick with blades of grass as he moved about, folding up what he could and piling it around the back of the car. He was quickly approaching Crowley's due date, and he had a few hours to get North into Albany.

He wasn't, of course, any sort of stranger to booze runs. He had no interest in only meeting one specific task anyway, not when there were multiple niches to fill in the criminal world. You could say that he dabbled, in some roundabout way. He snorted to himself when he thought of that.

Albany was a city in the way that most capitols were, but didn't hold a candle to the mass of New York. There was hardly a risk of getting lost around here or there, even if it had been a few months since he had last been that way. But there was no question about it: Their impromptu vacation would be over after breakfast, and when they got back home, it'd be more running around in their own little circles, meeting up only when they could.

Dean sighed, slamming the car door shut.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned to see Castiel standing right behind him. He gaped for a moment, too startled to swear.

"Are we leaving?" Castiel asked, jutting his chin towards the car. They both had dark shadows of scruff on their faces, and Dean wondered what he would look like to someone else; a few dips in the water hardly equated to a decent bath, and the suit he planned on wearing out was probably mashed and wrinkled from its time spent in the backseat; hardly a professional way to look, hardly impressive.

Castiel's eyes were clear and alert, looking at him, _into_ him, as usual.

Suddenly being impressive didn't seem so important, just then. His gaze dropped just a few inches down to Castiel's mouth, and that seemed to be all the invitation needed before Castiel was pulling Dean to him, hands in his hair, heartbeat pounding against his chest as they leaned by the side of the car. It was quick and rushed – immature, dirty, depraved and more wonderful than he could have imagined. Even as Dean forced himself to pull away he relished in the warm hands resting on his hips, and how his own hands felt around Castiel's shoulders.

"We don't have time." He weakly persisted after a moment of regaining his breath. It was hard to even stand upright when Castiel's fingers lightly touched down his back.

"We never do," Castiel said.

"Sad as it is," He kissed Castiel again. "Vacation's over. Let's have something to eat and then we're back on the road again." They lingered another moment, before halfheartedly stepping away and going about their business. They got dressed, ate, and finished packing the car. The silence betrayed their dual melancholy, and with a reluctant slowness they finally headed off once more, not as impressed with the piece of machinery that had brought them as the first time around. In hindsight, there had hardly been anything special about the place; not really. Most of the world was a forest, one way or another, and it was just as easy to hide away in the trees as a house or movie theater. But they both still knew that the days they shared had never been experienced before, nor would they ever have such a time again.

Slowly, towns reappeared; roads grew wider, blacker, the people increased, and land evened out. Dean sent Castiel out on the corner of Madison Avenue and Philip Street, which was sparse compared to the other Madison he knew, but was full of short, adjoined shops that Castiel could be amused by. It was about noon, and he promised on being back not long after two thirty. "You'll be okay?" he half called from his spot in the car, but Castiel had already slammed the passenger door shut and went onto the sidewalk. He gave a small wave, betraying nothing more than a friendly gesture. Dean adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, feeling a wave of uncertainty fall through him. He didn't want to leave Castiel by himself, though he knew that any other way would probably be more dangerous. Finally he waved back and eased down the street, watching the other man through the reflection in the car's side mirror until he had to turn away.

The particular stop for his run was shipping Canadian whiskey from Lake Ontario to Manhattan. It would have made a straight run into the city if there hadn't been a bust somewhere in Buffalo; instead most of the cargo had been put to Albany on hold for a few days, and Crowley's men were there to pick it up. Dean's written address was more or less inferred, considering that the number and street name he was given was just a long row of abandoned factories on the opposite and partway abandoned end of the town; one of the usual places to do something illegal.

There was a row of crumbling buildings made of white stone with tall, bottle-neck chimneys, no longer blowing smoke. He found a broken length of fence and drove through, pulling up to the one that had the least amount of broken windows. He banged on one of the entrances, gave his name, and moved his car inside one of the many garage sized openings that was lifted up for him by an undistinguished looking man. He got out and saw a handful of similar types wandering around, their own cars lined up and at attention.

A hand clapped him on the shoulder. "Winchester," came a serious voice. Dean turned and saw Adam, his face blank for a moment before splitting into a smile. Dean returned it, anxiety dissipating. "I didn't know Crowley sent you up here." He said.

"I didn't know this was a joint operation." Dean said, taken aback.

"Life's just full of surprises, ain't it?" Dean kept his mouth shut. "Besides that though, why _are_ you here?"

"I asked," Dean started walking across the factory floor. The place was abandoned, except for a few of the men and some graffiti. "Needed a vacation, so I headed up early, and…" he shrugged.

"Odd way to relax."

"I was outside mostly." Adam gave him an appraising look.

"I should've guessed." He pinched a wrinkled part of Dean's tweed jacket. "Look like you had a roll around with someone, but I didn't want to say anything." Dean huffed a laugh.

"As touching as your reunion is, ladies…" a man was pushing a crate of bottles into the trunk of his car, head angled to stare at the pair. Adam shook off and started back towards a slowly dwindling pile of crates and boxes; liquid shining amber and bright, glass clinking together like a type of unlearned song. At least Dean wasn't the only one who had taken his time.

He got the trunk of his car open and started to move; it wasn't an hour of work, going back and forth as quick as they dared. He could hear hollers going on around him; on occasion a door would open and a car would slowly roll out, down the road.

"Think you can put some back there?" Adam said much later, nodding towards the backseat of Dean's car. The blankets would probably serve as a good cover.

"Yeah. Okay." Dean clapped his hands on his trousers and got one of the doors open, maneuvering some of the covers around, pulling a few out to rest on the hood of the car. Adam opened the other side and did the same. He glanced up at Dean when a suitcase was uncovered, but said nothing, merely moving it forward for Dean to grasp and put on the floor.

Under that, however, was a novel. Adam picked it up with a hand, examining its dark cover and title etched in black. "_Jane Eyre_," he read aloud. He flipped through the pages disinterestedly before meeting Dean's gaze. "Didn't know that was your thing."

"Hey, I read." Dean grumbled. He snatched the book away when Adam offered it.

Adam still had his eyes on the other things in the car. "What do you need a suitcase for, anyway?"

"I said I came here early." Dean unfastened part of the bag and slipped the book in.

"You have your clothes strewn around, too."

"We can't all be light packers, can we?"

"Uh-huh." There was a deprecating note in his voice, but Adam merely moved away and fetched another case of bottles. Dean straightened up the rest of his belongings, heart thudding in his chest as he did so. They managed to fill up the backseat before Adam decided to talk again.

"You know you can tell me," he said openly.

"Tell you what?"

"It's a bit obvious – you're not the best actor, Dean. Who goes on a trip to the woods by themselves? And why would one man need a whole suitcase?"

"He doesn't want his clothes messed up,"

"You did a fine job with that, then." He reached for another cover. "Seriously though, do I know her?"

Dean didn't so much falter as freeze for a moment. "_What?_" he finally got out.

"Well, you must have brought _some_one. Who else but a girl?"

"…I'm not exactly the romantic type," Dean offered. He had his hands around the edge of the car's roof, Adam stood the same way on the other side.

"Charming type, though. It's like the same thing. Come on, one for one." He glanced around the factory; there were three men trying to close the trunk of a 1927 Model T without a particular concern for anything else. "I have something important to tell you too."

"You first."

"I made the offer, _you_ go." Dean wondered if he bickered as much with Sam. _Yes_, he thought belatedly. Adam was closer in blood than he thought.

"Fine." Dean bit out. He began spreading out one last tarp on his side, until the seat just looked like a misshapen lump. With the suitcase nearby, it'd appear more to anyone who got a good enough look that it was just remains from an extensive trip. Dean used the time manipulating the fabric to weigh his options: There was no way in Heaven or Hell that he would tell Adam the truth; that much was certain. He could very easily lie and confirm that it was merely a girl, but it was up in the air whether that would complicate things. One look in the suitcase and that would be over with, _if_ word that Dean Winchester went on vacation with a girl no one's ever heard of… it might just be easier in some cases to admit to everything and live in the woods for the rest of his days.

"Like I said, I'm not going with some girl." Dean settled the suitcase on top of the cushioned bottles. "It's uh, a friend of mine, I suppose. A man. And he wouldn't exactly be keen on knowing that I'm telling you what I'm about to, but you're my brother and I'm holding you to keeping your mouth shut on it, understand?" Adam nodded.

"What's his name?"

"Castiel," Dean fought to not wince as the name came immediately out of his mouth. "He's – well I'm guessing _you_ don't know who he is," he tried to sound impatient. "Met by chance. He's not from around here. Closer to my new place; Sam saw him once."

"And you brought him with you?" Dean scratched the rough stubble on his cheek.

"Not exactly. He had family up here he wanted to visit. Some sisters, I think. He doesn't have a car of course and I offered to drop him off in Albany here for a bit while I ran and did this."

"So you two stayed together for a while before?" Dean shrugged in what he hoped would be a natural gesture.

"He's not that bad of a man. Just keeps to himself. Sits and reads."

Adam slowly smiled. "You're a real McCoy, Dean. So, what's his last name?"

"You wouldn't know him," Dean insisted as a way to deflect the inquiry. "He's Russian, at any rate."

"Hmph. You think you can trust him?"

"He hasn't done much to prove himself _untrustworthy_," Dean offered. Adam hummed again. "If you even say he's a spy I'll smack you."

"I didn't say _that_. Not a spy, fine. Though his taste in books are… odd. For a regular fella to be reading, I mean."

"He told me he's not a fan of Hemingway and the like."

"But purple prose and romance stories about rich guys? Sounds like a pansy if I've ever heard of one. Don't suppose he's into Greek myth too; heard that's popular with the lot of 'em."

Dean swallowed. "Times," he muttered. "They are a'changing. Now I got my story out, what about you?" His abruptness seemed to startle Adam a bit. He looked around conspiringly, before nodding.

"Yeah. Yeah. First though, I could use a smoke." He wandered over to the garage doors and slid one open with a hollow shudder. Sunlight streamed through and pricked at Dean's eyes. He could smell decaying leaves, contrasting with the industrial rot inside the building. He took his hat from its resting spot on the driver's seat and put it on as he followed Adam outside and lit up. His hand paused a moment as he watched his half-brother slump about, hands in his pockets, scouring the abandoned outside with a glare.

He remembered then that Adam didn't smoke.

"Lucifer said he was going to make me a body guard soon." Adam said somberly, after a moment.

"Congrats." Dean said dully. "Is this a training course?"

"He sent me out here as a secret."

"Wouldn't those guys inside wonder what you're doing here?"

"A nice fifty makes most people look the other way." Dean mentally consented to that and took another drag as he waited for Adam to continue his thought.

"Lucifer's getting… agitated."

Dean snorted. "That's specific."

"Paranoid I mean. You know, thinking that something big is going on? Starting, at least. You remember how that was; when he thought someone was going to go up against him, do something."

"That wasn't a good time for anybody." Dean recalled, squinting. "Alright, so he's sending a few eyes and ears out to jobs. Why here, though? Why with Crowley?"

Adam leaned in close to Dean; eyes resolute in some determining thought. "He's one of the suspects."

Dean could almost stutter. "What? Crowley – _Crowley_ – he thinks _he's_ planning to put a hit on him? He knows a head dealer like him ain't stupid. Guy's too shrewd for anybody else's good."

Adam shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not saying he's _right_; but you know that if Crowley could pick up everything Lucifer has his hands on, he'd do it."

"Sure, but just because you have your neighbor's house key doesn't mean you're planning on bumping him to get a hold of his fine china."

"Well, there's a reason why they're the bosses and we're their little workers, isn't there?" Adam said. "It's a whole different ballgame up there."

Dean snorted. "Adam, I worked for Alastair. And I'd hardly say that he was any better off than me. The only difference between the three of 'em, is Crowley and Lucifer have a group of people to clean up their messes. They're dredges of the world that got hold of a step ladder. Now they're gods." He stamped out his cigarette. "So what do you want me to tell you?"

Adam licked his lips, not expecting Dean's monologue. He carried on as if he hadn't heard anything but the last part. "Just… don't mention anything to your boss – anyone, really. Not even that Castiel guy, alright? If word gets around that I told you, well," Adam slid his thumb along his throat. "I know we've never been really close. I'm nothing compared to Sam, but –" Dean clapped him on the shoulder; it was his turn to be resolute and assured.

"Hey," Adam looked up at Dean. "We're still family, alright? And Winchesters look out for Winchesters. I'm going to make sure that you and your family stays safe if it's the last thing I do." Adam let out a grateful smile at his brother's words.

"Thanks, Dean. Knew I could count on you." He stepped away and reached for the handle on the garage door. "Are you leaving now?"

Dean looked back. "'Fraid so. Still on the clock, after all. Give the Devil my regards when you see him next, alright? And let me know if there's any trouble on your end." He pushed the door back up, eyes trying to adjust in the dim setting.

"Yeah," Adam said quietly. "I'll do that." Dean could feel Adam's stare on him as he went back to the car and made sure everything was settled. When he tipped his hat to the other workers in farewell Adam did not bid him goodbye but instead went, "Try to keep yourself safe while you're at it." His dark eyes followed Dean out the door and down the road for a long, long time after that.

**xxxx**

It was just past three and a bitter feeling in his stomach forced Dean to go a legal speed on the roads. He hadn't felt all that great about leaving Castiel by himself, but he was persuaded that it was the best way to go, considering all the other options. But now, that feeling of doubt had crept back in, and he felt sick.

And it wasn't just Castiel he was thinking about. What Adam had said – and the resolute look in his eyes – weren't exactly pinnacles of reassurance. Dean had adopted that sort of die-hard look before, many times. But if he saw it in other men, it had never boded well. There was a lesson in that observation that he pointedly ignored; the fact was, the mafia was its own little family, too. And as bad as Winchesters were, the former was more deadly. If there was a conflict between Lucifer and Crowley, with Adam as an immediate henchman and Dean with his own loyalty sold to the other, they were pretty much guaranteed to go at each other's throats. And Adam did have a haunting point: He wasn't Sam. And Dean wasn't the family Adam had made for himself. If they were both told to choose…

He didn't want to admit that he was scared. For Adam's safety, for Castiel's. He didn't want to wonder what would happen if or when Crowley and Lucifer butted heads. Or what that would mean for him, as the guy from both sides of the fence. Looking forward, down the road, only a couple miles now from Madison Avenue, he didn't want to think that when he arrived, Castiel wouldn't be there waiting for him.

The perfectly sensible, strong Castiel who could shoot off any goon that would come his way. Except for the fact that he hated guns and would never keep them on his person; that even innocent and perfect creatures like he were not invincible. More than all of that, Dean knew that when he told Castiel about the risks and what Adam had told him, Castiel would not leave him. He wouldn't be scared away.

And Dean, unlike before, wouldn't try to force him. He was now totally comfortable with being selfish about Castiel. And most of all, he tried not to think about what that meant for the both of them.

So he thought merely about everything else. He let his mind wander off to Sam, Jessica, and he lingered on the fact that they would never see a New England autumn like he did the last few days. He thought about the wobbling stock market and how he wished he had Sam to better understand how the financial business went, and when he realized he was only getting depressed with commiserating about his brother, he immediately, unconsciously back to Castiel in a way that proved that he was too far gone, too easily conditioned at this point – he could clearly see how the man had looked in the midst of the trees, curled up with the old romantic novel, or when he emerged dripping wet off the shore. The warmth he had felt against his skin, in his arms, and then with a jarring suddenness to almost have him brake in the middle of the road, he realized that he had felt the same type of stomach-turning obsession one other time in his life.

He thought about Cassie Robinson, and a long, hot summer in Missouri. The one where he and his brother had honey comb and Dean spent too much time sticking his nose where it didn't belong.

Perhaps he was led to her because of Adam's comment; Dean certainly seemed attracted to the things he shouldn't want – the wrong race, the wrong sex, something. But they had parted in a bad way because they were both too dumb and too selfish for their own good, as most were at seventeen. Perhaps, this time, he'd grown. Perhaps he _could_ grow, because how he felt now wasn't so different from how he had felt then. But it had been a long, long time in between.

He pulled up to the middle of Madison, right where he had dropped Castiel before. There were throngs of people, walking about, but there was no black suit, no tan coat; no nest of unruly black hair. All the eyes he could see were dark and downturned.

No Castiel.

And a thousand concepts rushed him, in a panic; Castiel was lost; Castiel was gone; Castiel was – _what if he's…?_ He was about to get out of the car, throw caution to the wind and scream because it was all too much too suddenly, and when he had Cassie he also had Sam and a whole lot of carelessness to get lost in, but right then he didn't have anything, and fear and doubt and want were the only things that seemed to be getting through at the moment. He put a hand to eyes, forced himself to draw in deep breaths and try to just stop thinking for a minute or two.

There was a knock on the door.

Dean looked up, and from the passenger side window Castiel stared at him, head tilted. Dean quickly pushed the door open and Castiel slipped inside.

"Did you miss me?" he asked playfully, smiling. He had a brown paper bag in his hand that he settled onto his lap. Dean stareed back for a bit so that he wouldn't lose whatever shred of self control he still had; but Castiel was there, and for the time being, they were safe.

They're on the road once more.

"Anything important happen while I was gone?" Dean shrugged; besides a few revelations, a near breakdown, and Adam's morbid news, of course, nothing.

"What about you?" Dean eyed the bag. "Get something?"

Castiel quickly dismissed the question by shoving the small parcel into the deep pockets of his trench coat. "Just a few spices for at home; they were cheaper here." Dean nodded. It was quiet; in the car, in his head, and Castiel still stared mildly on; at the scenery mostly, though on occasion he looked over at Dean in an almost, but not quite adoring, respect-ridden look. Dean couldn't place his finger on the emotions behind it, but that didn't stop him from pulling onto the side of the road the second they were in nowheresville again, just so he could pull Castiel to him and kiss him senseless. His lips, his mouth, tasted sweet, and Dean knew that he'd be alright if he went home to all that uncertainty and trouble, so long as Castiel was there with him.

**xxxx**

**A/N: I hope none of you have a problem with long chapters, um. Perhaps the bulk makes up for the delay. As for the references, the book Dean mentions in the diner is _Walden_, by Henry David Thoreau. He was a Transcendentalist and the book covered his experiences of living out in wilderness during the nineteenth century. Also, Ellenville, NY is a real place. The other literary reference is _Jane Eyre_ by Charlotte Bronte, which is about a young orphan girl who suffers at the hand of her foster family before growing up quiet but resolute, and falling in love with a guy who's kind of a jerk but they make it work, sort of. The gun Dean mentions was just a firearm in use at the time, though speaking of guns – for some reason when I hunt down historical information I also find a lot of Supernatural trivia, too. In Supernatural, we notice that The Colt and Winchester are both names of large firearm companies. However, in 'It's a Terrible Life', when Dean and Sam become Smith and Wesson, that is also referring to yet another large gun manufacturing company of the same name. This is probably already widely known in the fandom but, there you go. On another note, Cassie Robinson is my favorite of Dean's canonical flames and I enjoy coming back to her every now and then because of the significance she probably had in shaping Dean's future love life with women in the show; there is, of course, some point to her mention, but stating my opinion of her couldn't hurt.**

**Lastly, this chapter was personally considered as a response to chapter twelve. I believe that the Roaring Twenties were nothing if not versatile. There were massive parties and gambling rings and shady, underground businesses that weren't so underground at the time, but there was also a lot of the homey feeling one gets when examining the past, and while I'd be the last to advocate bringing back the Fifties-style nuclear family, there is something a bit romantic about how people eighty, ninety years ago would just take their new-fangled cars and head out somewhere; a park, the woods, for a picnic, usually. There are quite a few vintage photos of Americans doing just that, and seeing a flapper and her beau in a field with sandwiches is strange and fun and appealing to a nostalgia we've never experienced. It's almost as appealing as Dean and Castiel sitting in a field with sandwiches and making out whenever they want because no one can stop them. They're basically teenagers. You're lucky there isn't another 5k of sex at this point really. You're welcome.**


	16. It's Not a Recession

On occasion a person could get lucky enough to get an out of body experience. Or more precisely a moment of insight into the happenings of their own lives, as if they were staring from a window, looking in on themselves. Dean, in particular, received such an existential incident on his 27th birthday while he was cooking dinner for himself and the Novaks in the flat above their shop, all the while deflecting Castiel's questions and reaffirming that Neapolitan sauce wasn't inedible even if it was a dish he had 'made up', and yes, you _did_ put that much garlic into the sauce, and anchovies wouldn't spoil the food.

It certainly wasn't the type of celebration he would have been expecting a year ago; a multiple generation Italian cooking for a family of Russians, with a married brother stationed halfway across the country.

Dean finally took a dish towel and smacked Castiel in the shoulder, pushing him onto the other side of the small kitchen. "Keep him there," he said to Gabriel, who seemed rather entertained by the exchange.

A lot could happen in less than a year.

"He's using too much garlic," Castiel grumbled, reaching for a bell shaped glass and pouring himself a generous helping of wine. It had been a present from himself to Dean, but that didn't hinder him any. Dean watched from the corner of his eye, and Castiel watched back, taking a sip.

"I can't believe you're cooking dinner on your birthday," Gabriel cut in. He gave an aside glance to his brother-in-law. "And besides, I like garlic." He played with a matchbook in his hands, leaning back in his chair while his feet rested on the kitchen table. "Castiel, sit down; Dean's going to start a fire if you try to start a staring match with him."

"I'm not –"

"I don't –"

They both stopped their protests abruptly. Castiel awkwardly sat down, pushing Gabriel's feet off the tabletop with a weak reprimand.

Anna appeared out of her bedroom. "You're going to wake the baby up with all that fussing."

"He's slept through worse," Gabriel said, surreptitiously taking the full cup of wine for himself while Castiel looked over at his sister. Dean would have laughed, though at that moment some of the frying tomato juice popped up and stung him on his knuckle, if only enough to get him back to focusing.

His decision to cook had been an impulsive one. He had been more or less in charge of meals since he was tall enough to work a stove, but that was more as a way to solve a logistical problem versus any real enjoyment for the culinary; when their Dad landed a job, or at least said he had one, it was best if he and Sam learned how to fend for themselves. If they managed to stay in an inn or hostel, Dean could get his hands on a stove and a few dollars for groceries, and that was that. In later years Sam helped him, and not a year ago he, his brother, and Jessica would pull their respective weight when it came to meals. He never considered cooking an impressive skill; just a decent, utilitarian one. A man who didn't know how to feed himself hadn't had a shred of independence in between his mother and his wife and could hardly be expected to be an interesting fellow. And having a favorite meal of his fell into the usual regiment of how Winchesters spent their birthdays, anyway.

In some small way, though, he might have been trying to make an impression. Give some sort insight to what his Westernized heritage was; that and not to mention that brined anchovies were dirt cheap. Dean had come up with the specific recipe more out of being frugal than wanting to experiment. Some tomatoes, some olives; plenty of garlic and whatever seasoning one had on hand, and the fish, which made up an impressive underlying taste. It served on top of Capellini pasta and could feed the four of them easy, no matter how hungry they all were.

By the time the three Novaks were settling down, Dean was just poking into the cast-iron skillet he had been given, moving around the simmering chunks of tomato, and watching the occasional bubble come up and disperse. The pasta was nearly done.

"And neither of you even bothered to help him," Anna muttered. "Poor Dean – letting him slave away for you two."

"I tried –" Castiel stared.

"You didn't, Castiel." Gabriel said. "You really didn't."

"Are they always like this?" Dean hadn't seen the entire family together for long enough to actually notice.

"It gets worse," Anna said somberly. "So, besides their rudeness, I hope you've had a good day?" Dean killed the gas and carried the brimming pot over to the sink, watching steaming water flow down as he drained the noodles.

"Not really," he said, dumping the Capellini into a serving bowl, putting the sauce on top of that and setting it down on the crowded table with a wooden rattle. "It's just any normal day."

"Except now you're twenty-seven," Castiel said politely.

"Calling me old?"

"Hardly," Gabriel said. "He's the youngest of all three of us, and he's got probably a five year head start on you."

Dean went into his chair. It groaned quietly under his weight. "Oh yes," he said. "You're thirty-two, right?"

"More or less." Castiel said.

Anna spoke up before Dean asked something else; "Before we get on to that," She interrupted, putting her hands out, her palms facing upwards in an offering gesture. "Should we say Grace?"

Dean glanced towards Castiel again, but the other man merely grabbed Dean's hand, threading their fingers together and bowing his head. Gabriel grasped his other hand in a much more systematic gesture, and somberly went through an improvised thanksgiving. Dean stared down at his plate, trying not to shift in his chair, or swallow too hard, or twitch his fingers in their hold. He counted his breaths and felt the room grow hotter; it wasn't the oven or the heater making him flushed, since the Novaks were now reduced to not using gas for heat except on the absolute coldest and harshest of nights, and even then at bare minimum.

Sam and Jess prayed, sometimes at dinner, or before bed. Sam had done pretty well of hiding it when they were younger, Dean unaware of his devoutness until Sam admitted to it upon being questioned. Their prayers were routine and identical; usually involving a few gestures and Hail Marys and whatever else was called for. They didn't speak about the neighborhood; they didn't address the shambles of unemployed and hungry walking around that very night, not out loud, at least. Dean had always shirked away from the dogma of religion, but he wasn't too sure what to make of what Castiel, Anna, and Gabriel were doing. It was worse that they drew him into their blessing, and Dean squeezed Castiel's hand for it, not exactly a message, but for whatever vague gesture he made, Castiel returned it with another hard tug at his fingers.

Somehow Dean found comfort in this.

"Amen," The table murmured in sync. Dean mumbled something that could be construed as the same word. He watched the three of them hand one another serving bowls or a water pitcher and wondered if there was a form of etiquette he was missing out on.

Gabriel poured him wine, which he promptly picked up and nearly finished in a desperate pull. "Castiel told me you grew up in a Catholic family?"

"Yeah, well, my brother is really the only practitioner left in the family." He paused and stared at the drink, as if just seeing it for the first time. "How'd you even _get_ this?"

"You aren't the only one who goes on those sorts of runs." Castiel said. "I asked Balthazar for a favor. You should thank him next time you see him."

"Sure he didn't poison it?" Dean muttered, gingerly setting down the glass. "He has good taste, at least…" caught up in two conversations at once, he stopped for a moment. "Right. Me. I don't practice much of anything," he said to Gabriel, feeling that same moment of guilt like when he first told Castiel such, months and months ago. "I've never had to hold hands before, though."

"No?"

"I assumed you wouldn't be fans of it either, liking privacy and all that."

"Privacy's a luxury." Anna said.

"Though sometimes Castiel forgets about it." Gabriel cut in. "But that seems to be specific to you."

Castiel slid his chair a few inches closer to his sister in embarrassed response.

As horrible as it sounded, watching Castiel's family pick on him took the edge off his own feeling of isolation, and he greatly welcomed it.

Dinner wasn't nearly as awkward after that; it was hardly silent, either. Castiel was easily the most reserved of the family, but he seemed to be more than happy to be dragged into conversation, or to make a few side comments to another discussion he wasn't actively part of. Mostly it was bits and pieces of neighborhood gossip, which surprisingly, Dean wasn't totally inept with. He asked a few questions, made a few suggestions, and every time he did such Anna and Gabriel would glance at him as if they weren't sure how he knew about Mrs. So-and-so and that couple's business on 6th Street or those two sons that had just started school that year. And every time he proved that he had been paying attention to all of his and Castiel's rambling conversations, he would catch the other man staring at him with a little twitch on his lips.

His ability to tread in new waters, and perhaps the decent meal he served up was a good motivation for Gabriel to at one point halfway through eating look over at Dean and broach his favorite topic, Sam. "Did your brother send you anything?" Gabriel asked. "For your birthday, I mean."

"He wrote me saying that the things I got around Christmastime would have to suffice. But I was expecting that, with how things are right now."

"He did send us a crate of oranges though," Castiel interjected.

"Right. He did. Says they get them all the time there. Next time we're over I'll remember to take some to you."

"That's very thoughtful of you," Anna said, bypassing Gabriel who looked as if he was prepared to snatch one of the mythical fruits from out of thin air. "But your brother gave them to you – we wouldn't want to take any off your hands."

"No, he actually said on the card, 'Share with Castiel and his family.' It's not as if I could eat twenty of 'em, anyway."

"Sam also told him not to try, either." Castiel supplied.

"I suppose we could make preserves out of a few," Anna offered. "Might not get our hands on something sweet for a while anyway. Well, thank-you then, Dean."

Dean shrugged. "Don't thank me, thank my brother. He's always been the nicer guy."

"How is your brother anyway?" Gabriel said. "I mean I've never met him, but I get a few things from you and Castiel."

"Can't be any worse than here." Anna said sardonically, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

"At least it's plentiful out West." Gabriel said.

"Maybe with food, but not in jobs. Jess got fired from that accounting work, or well, the store closed. Sam's been looking. Mostly it's on and off labor, week to week stuff. He said they're managing but," Dean huffed out a laugh because he was starting to get worked up. "Then again, if he's anything like me he'd say that if they were out on the streets." Dean poured himself a glass of water, hoping the distraction would calm him some. "He mentioned a name though. A car shop he's delivered parts for a few times. He might get time there if he knew a thing about cars."

"Like you?" Anna asked.

"I'd say he got an in at that shop more for his brawn than his brain," Gabriel said. Dean frowned. When Black Tuesday hit, it had been a whirlwind of panic, of desperation and confusion. You couldn't leave the city, couldn't get a damn letter posted, couldn't do anything, really, for the first few days. Dean had never felt all that at home in putting his money in a bank, so while the odd stocks and the spending money for his chequebook were gone without a trace, he had enough paper stored away to ensure that he had something of value left to him.

The entire world settled, more or less. At the least it didn't feel like any day a riot would break out, though everything was far from peaceful, or ideal, or even comfortable. Sometimes the anxiety of it all kept him up at night.

But he had found a job.

In normal times it wasn't much. The garage that had picked him up didn't do as much fixing as impounding the automobiles that were confiscated and foreclosed on, and breaking down what could be used for scrap. Others came in and tried to sell their cars themselves for cash, or even buy up machinery to use for whatever they could; once or twice workers from other businesses had come in on behalf of their bosses in search of raw material, thinking that getting something second-hand was cheaper than ordering the stuff. It was 56 cents an hour and, in truth, did command more of Dean's strength than his smarts.

Job discussion went on, having insidiously made its way into conversation and refusing to leave. Castiel had picked up work just that past week; in addition to maintaining their tailoring shop, he had to stand over a small vat of sulfuric acid and dip in various iron and metal parts to clean them. The pay was worse by a few cents, and he wasn't allowed Saturday off, either. Gabriel and Anna had reported that they had found just as awful places to work, though it seemed that out of the four of them, Dean was the only one who noted how horrible they had it. The three Novaks seemed rather unbothered by any of the economic downward spirals the world was jumbled up in, or at least less bothered than what a normal person should have been.

Dean envied that peace of mind, that apathy, whatever it was. He was certain that he was making up for any nonchalance on their part.

**xxxx**

After dinner, Dean's attempts to help clean up were met with refusals by both Gabriel and Anna, where he was more or less pushed into his chair while they cleared the table. It was probably good manners; still, after a moment Castiel went and disappeared into his room, leaving Dean slightly on edge as he sat.

He reappeared a few minutes later, and Dean eyed a small lump wrapped in coarse looking material. He didn't have to guess what it was, and he looked up at Castiel with a darkened gaze.

"You didn't have to do that," he muttered. "Really, you shouldn't have." Dean wasn't acting humble, either. If anything he was ashamed; that he made it seem like Castiel owed him anything; much less a gift during a time when all of them could be out on the streets in a month's time.

"It's from all of us," Anna said, from her spot at the sink. "We insist." Castiel handed Dean the parcel, and he took it with visible reluctance. There wasn't much weight to it. Undoing two folded sides revealed a few pieces of cloth: There was a scarf made in a dull grayish color that felt as soft as cashmere; under that were three hand-embroidered handkerchiefs, meant for the breast pockets of his suits – the ones that weren't being worn with as much frequency – each one had _D.W._ written in a flourish, green thread on a white square, white on blue, and black on red. The colors were vibrant enough to be exotic, and Dean ran his hands along the material a few times, feeling the small weaves in the cotton, the bunched string that curved together in immaculate penmanship to give his initials and a small border, specific to that corner of the cloth.

He looked to Castiel first. "You did this?"

"We bought the scarf from a friend of ours," Gabriel said, sitting back down at the table. It had been cleaned off while Dean inspected his gift. "We were set to buy the handkerchiefs too, but Castiel insisted on personalizing them for you."

"I…" he swallowed, biding his time. "Thank-you," he said finally. He turned in his chair to find Gabriel and Anna. "And you both, thank-you, very much." He folded up the pieces again.

Gabriel regarded him shrewdly for a moment, perhaps to see if Dean was being genuine. There might have been a small tremble in Dean's hands as he put the present back in its wrappings, and perhaps there was a perplexed, lost look still on his features. Either way, the shorter man said, "It was the least we could do."

And strangely enough, Dean believed him.

Not much later he excused himself for a smoke, and figured he would be better apt to collect his thoughts in the cold night air. He went outside, into the alleyway where Castiel purportedly stood and smoked as well. He instantly regretted it, feeling the numb cold settling into his body as he leaned up against the frozen wall of bricks.

The street was abandoned, blanketed in a quick layer of snow. It was too cold for slush, too warm for ice. He wished for the scarf he had been given, still a bit overcome with it. Dean wasn't accustomed to people giving out of the fondness in their hearts. Sam got him presents on the right occasion. Sometimes he had gotten something from him for no reason at all, but mostly their time for gift-giving was strictly limited to Christmas and birthdays.

He didn't expect to get anything from anyone else.

If anyone bothered to give him something in life, they wanted a fair trade back, which was all well for him. And if he had been simply allowed to have something, he was led to believe it was more out of charity. What he didn't pay back in money or regular compensation was done by letting the giver feel good about themselves; for letting him be the object of allegedly selfless benevolence.

Castiel didn't have to do anything for him. He didn't have to make another gesture, especially not a materialistic one. Moreover, the rest of his family didn't have to be so willing to do the same. Their sincerity of wanting to give Dean a token for his birthday was matched by Dean's overwhelmed appreciation for it. It was a symbol, of something. Perhaps the entire night had been. Dean just wished that he knew whether Anna and Gabriel well and truly liked his presence, or were letting him go along for Castiel's sake.

Presently, he heard the shop door rattle and open; small footsteps crunching in the snow.

Anna stepped into view. She was in a thick duster, boiled wool instead of fur. "Mind of I join you?" She asked, nodding at the cigarette Dean was working on.

"Didn't know you smoked," he said, lighting up another one of his and handing it over.

"Only while in company. Not nearly as much as my brother and husband do." She inspected the stick a moment before taking it to her mouth. "Dinner was good, by the way."

"Thanks,"

"Did your Mother teach you that?"

Dean hesitated, but only a moment. "She died when I was a kid. She didn't really get the chance to teach me anything."

"Was she a good cook?"

"I'm sure she was," Dean said. He felt something in his chest, fought down what might have been a smile or a wince. "No, I just spent a lot of time making sure me and my brother wouldn't starve, so I had to learn something. Borrowed cookbooks, mostly, or got into the kitchen if there was one where we stayed at. That is, when it was Sam, Dad, and I. Before we came back here, at least."

"Were you born here?"

"No. Kansas, actually. Lawrence, Kansas. It's a city, though since it's in the middle west and it's _not_ Chicago it isn't well-known." Anna smirked at that. "After our Mom passed we jumped from place to place. A few months here, a weekend there. Drifters by choice, I suppose. The longest place we stayed at was Texas. You know where that is?"

"The state bordering Mexico? Yes, I know that one."

"My brother and I stayed there for a bit. Uh, we went around in the summer, but for school I suppose, our Dad wanted us in one place."

"That was considerate of him." Dean made a non-committal shrug. "Is that where your accent is from?"

"Excuse me?"

Anna looked considering for a moment before she elaborated. "Well for a man from Brooklyn you don't sound like one, and you don't sound much like you came from Sicily or Roma. I hear people from the Middle West don't sound like anything at all. You have a bit of a… drawl, if you don't mind me saying. Just a small one. I wouldn't have noticed if Castiel didn't go on about it once or twice."

"He says that?"

"Sure, though he says you like his inflection too, so I don't think you can be upset."

"No, not that. I just… didn't think he talked about me with you two."

"Of course he does. He has to swoon over you with somebody, and Balthazar isn't the best company for that." Dean frowned at the mention of the other's name. "He's a bit of a snob when it comes to people who weren't born in our part of the world, I'll grant you that, but he's not as bad as you seem to think he is." She sighed. "Then again I've tried telling him the same thing about you and he didn't believe me, either."

Dean tried not to show how unprecedented Anna's words were to him. "Does he talk about me?"

"_He_ doesn't swoon, I can tell you that." She took another puff. "No, though if Castiel has been away for a long enough time he tends to complain that you're dragging his favorite friend away."

"You don't think I'm taking Cas from you two, right?"

"A bit." She shrugged, glancing up at the sky. She hardly seemed upset by the fact, though the only time he had seen her moved to some sort of state was when he brought an injured Castiel in. She was quick to talk, to intervene, but she did so with an almost callous touch. Gabriel was a Broadway comic in comparison. Though for all her indifference, Dean was led to believe that she was very much like her brother – she seemed to feel a great deal, albeit inwardly, quietly, and without much attention drawn to it.

"To be fair, we haven't seen as little of Castiel since… ever, actually. It's mostly your fault," she glanced over at him. "But there's nothing to apologize for. Castiel, as you know, acts conservatively." That was one way to put it, Dean thought. "It… developed a bit, as we grew older, but for the most part he's always taken things a little too literally."

"He never seems to get bothered by anything." Dean said solemnly. Anna gave a small laugh. "What's that?"

"Believe me, Castiel is more than capable of throwing his hands in the air and stomping off like a small child, or listing all the ways he hopes someone's family line will suffer when they cut him the short of end of the stick. I can vouch for it myself. But we're not known, Russians, _sober_ Russians especially, to keep hearts on our sleeves. They'd freeze off during the winters there, you see." Dean smiled at the joke. "In all honesty, Castiel has changed a bit in recent months. His persona, what you would call coldness started to disappear. You could say he's got this weakness." Dean looked expectantly at Anna. She smiled fondly at him, red lips at a wide curve. "You see, he likes you."

Such an obvious comment shouldn't have made Dean's heart go off, but it did.

"He's gone through quite a few things in his life." She continued, absently. Or at least absent-sounding. "We all have. Mostly that's why we – Gabriel, Balthazar, and I – we… _accept_ how he is. You were not the first man to walk into his life, in a manner of speaking. Of course those were more hourly encounters than what you two have. Still," she looked straight ahead, her eyes unfocused. "We'd been through too much to just shun him for that, and he knows – we've told him. Did he tell you? About how it was before America?"

"…No," Dean said at length, moving over the weight of Anna's words. "He's made passes about it, I mean, but I'd never want him to think he has to tell me if he doesn't want to. I owe him that, at the very least." Anna regarded him, scrutinized his words for a moment.

"That is... surprisingly decent of you." Anna remarked, tossing the cigarette butt on the ground as she did so.

"I'd like to think I'm a decent guy."

"Try to remember that you and my brother were all but at one another's throats during the first few weeks of your... acquaintance- ship." Her shoe crunched the cigarette into the ground. "But as I was saying. Castiel goes with you for his own reasons, and I won't sit him down and make him tell me where he's been and who he's with and for what. Balthazar might, even Gabriel, but he is _my_ brother, and more than that, he's an adult. He can do what he likes. Even if that were to include fraternizing with the enemy, as it were." Her blind faith in Castiel made him ache for his brother and feel guilty for it all at the same time; he wished, in part, that he could have the same belief when it came to his Sam – to just know that he was doing fine, managing well, and if everything were to go sour he would tell Dean outright, but at the same time, scarcely a day went by where Anna didn't see Castiel, and the two siblings were hardly overly prideful, like he and Sam were raised to be.

Dean abruptly forced himself to stop thinking of Sam; it was a skill that was well-honed, over long time of being estranged from him.

Carrying on he hesitantly spoke again; "So, is this an approval?"

"You're Castiel's. _I_ hardly have a say in it." Anna said patiently. "But I will tell you this: Since meeting you, he's better. He's… happier than I've seen him in sixteen years. And part of that is your responsibility. Take care to remember that."

Dean nodded. "I will. And for what it's worth… thanks. For telling me all that."

Anna made an expression not unlike one Castiel would make when he was faintly amused by something – it was an affectionate look, and Dean felt relieved by it; the way that Anna had somehow quieted the doubts inside him as the presence of an outsider and an intimate all at once. Perhaps she knew of Dean's attachment to Sam, and was able to reach out in the same way that older siblings do. It felt as if a sort of mutual tone had been hit, perhaps because of that notion of family as the bottom line in all that mattered.

"Somebody had to. My husband's not a bad man, but he's too fond of keeping his head shoved up his own rear end when it comes to topics like these, if you know what I mean."

"I always took him for a people-person."

"Sometimes the quiet ones are the only types who say anything of value." Dean hummed at that for a considering moment. Anna turned back towards the shop. "Speaking of quiet ones, you may want to get Castiel and yourself home soon." Dean followed Anna back through the shop, up the stairs. "I heard there would be a storm coming around midnight. A decent one, too."

Dean scowled at the news. "Let me guess," he said, glancing up at her retreating form. "We're smack in the middle of it."

**xxxx**

The streets were deserted when Castiel and Dean walked back to the apartment. Dean supposed it was theirs, considering Castiel spent his nights with Dean more often than not, nowadays.

"When does your shift start?" Dean asked. The sky was black and the buildings were muted smudges of stone; his breath hit the air in white puffs like expensive cigar smoke and it looked like the cleanest, brightest thing out there on the road, at least until it faded away again.

"Six a.m. tomorrow." Castiel rubbed a hand across his face. "It's only eight hours."

"Yeah. _Only_."

"I asked for ten but they already had enough workers,"

"How'd you even find something?" Dean asked. Castiel shrugged in his coat, nose and ears flushed magenta in the cold.

"There are always jobs that have to get done," Castiel explained. "Most people just… don't want to do them. Except for the immigrants, I guess. It's been a while, but in the first months we arrived here, we had to do this sort of thing. Before tailoring came up, at least."

"Right."

Castiel thoughtfully glanced into his trench coat, which was fastened under his winter jacket. He looked back to Dean. "Do you have a shift tomorrow?"

"The garage only works Mondays till Fridays now. I might get some work from Crowley but that's been sporadic at best as of late." He glanced up at the starless sky and saw blotches of white start to fall down on them. By the time the pair of them managed to get inside, snow dusted the shoulders of their coats, and soaked as a cold wash into their hair. No one saw them enter the building, Dean holding the door open to let Castiel pass through first, though if they did it wasn't as a particularly odd sight to see two exhausted looking men wander up into the same flat; they had now become two unfortunate bachelors trying to cut down on rent. Even their different ethnicities weren't something to remark upon.

Inside, the apartment wasn't as warm as Castiel's kitchen. Dean quickly stripped down; eager to both get out of the chilled jacket and pants he wore as to slip on a silk pajama suit. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel moved more diligently along his own routine, leafing through a set of drawers where he kept his clothes. Looking around the room betrayed Castiel's near constant presence; an increasing pile of books strewn on the table, kitchen counter, and nightstand. Loose tobacco in packages in the cupboard; his shoes by the door, a tie dangling off the back of the armchair. One by one the items had snuck through and created a symbiosis with Dean's things. And in turn, Dean found himself slowly rearranging his own belongings to make room for Castiel. He was creating a place for him, until even the last sanctuary Dean had was hardly without evidence of the other man.

He watched Castiel vanish into the washroom, heard water run before he headed in there himself. When he got out, Dean saw snow trickle down in heavier sheets as he went to shut the curtains. The glass was freezing to the touch, and even through the thick shades winter crept in. They hadn't a fireplace, or a proper furnace, either. There was a boiler room in the basement, though the landlord said that it wouldn't get much use with how coal was priced. Instead down blankets were found, as were robes and thick socks and silk pants.

Dean shakily sighed, wiping a hand across his eyes. In that moment he felt nothing but misery. Sam was no longer safe in his home – and Dean himself wasn't fairing that much better. He wondered how long savings would last – how long the depression would go on. In a moment's notice the entire country had been plunged into an old muckraker's exposé; everyone reduced to the shambling dredges of society forced to work themselves half dead to make ends meet. Suddenly the affluence Dean had slowly been welcomed into over the years had swallowed up, leaving him to idle in some great black pit, along with all the rest of the common folk.

It wasn't too much of a stretch to think that one of them would wind up breaking their legs on the job and dying from tuberculosis, or something just as bad. Dean already knew of one of the men at the shop who had met his miserable end to the work there by slipping on a patch of ice and throwing out his back. Horror stories like that were creeping up in gossip circles all over the place. He'd already heard about some friend-of-a-friend that had gone and ended it, body lying mangled on the sidewalk after jumping from a top apartment floor. He'd even seen a picture of the guy, too. The graininess of the resolution not hindering the horror, or the fact that he could still recall the image in a moment's notice.

Dean leaned his forehead against the window, shut his eyes.

"What am I supposed to do?" he whispered, scarcely more intelligible than an exhalation of breath.

"Dean?"

Dean straightened up and turned around at Castiel's call. The man was dressed in a long pullover and sleeping pants. He stood next to the table, his hand on something. The room was dark and he was left to guessing. It appeared to be a small mason jar.

"What is it?" he asked, crossing the room. Castiel worried his lip a moment, looking at what he rested his hand on.

"You aren't fond of presents, I see." He said evenly.

"Afraid so." He paused, trying to select is words carefully. "I'm not used to getting things for no reason. Especially now. It seems wasteful – and I never thought I'd say that sort of thing, believe me."

Castiel leveled his gaze on him. "You probably never thought we'd be in the middle of what is apparent to go down as one of the greatest economic failures the modern world's ever seen."

"…True." Dean admitted, after a moment. He shifted on his feet, crossing his arms. "But I am grateful, to you and your family, you know. But just being with you is enough; you don't have to gratify me with anything else." Castiel nodded at that, his dry lips pursed in consideration. He was no longer looking at Dean, but his fingers tapped out a listless rhythm on the top of the jar, which had a decorative checkered cloth draped on the top of it, tied in sturdy looking yarn. "What's that?" he asked.

Castiel picked up the container and inspected it a moment, before glancing up and handing it over to Dean. "You remember our trip don't you? Last Fall?"

Dean smiled at the memory the words wrought. "Couldn't imagine forgetting." He glanced down and read a small label, written in a curled script, proclaiming the 6 ounce jar to be filled with freshly harvested local honey. "Did you get this…"

"While I was waiting for you. Not spices or whatever I said I had bought. I would've given it to you with the other things but, well, you saw how my brother gets around anything with sugar in it."

Dean held the jar up a bit higher and stared at the jar's contents. "There's honeycomb in here, too." Castiel leaned causally against the table.

"I believe that you mentioned liking it when you were younger?" Castiel ventured, waiting for Dean's reaction.

His reply was, admittedly, a bit subdued. He wasn't so willing to act humble or humiliated by the offering. Instead he took a look up from the honey and at Castiel, eyes gleaming in the darkness, and felt a separation from inside the flat and the rest of the world.

If his apartment was the last place of refuge, against the weather, against thoughts of far-flung family and the uncertain future, it wasn't the four walls that inspired safety and some bit of peace.

It was Castiel.

While he was trying to work out a place for the other man, Castiel was probably doing the same. Unnecessary trinkets all of the sudden took on a rather remarkable meaning. Castiel didn't owe him anything other than his simple company. He didn't reach out due to need or charity, or any other begrudging reason. He did it because he wanted to. Because useless gifts were probably one of the greatest characteristics of love. The emotion brought all sorts of whimsical, superfluous notion to it; it was one of the few feelings that did. And Castiel had, unwittingly or not, acted upon it. Castiel wanted to make an extra gesture for no other reason than a personal desire. Which, oddly enough, left both he and Dean a bit elated inside.

In short, the two of them were together for the long haul. For the remainder of winter; the rest of the depression, and anything else that the world through at the pair.

It was a rather impressive message to be found in a jar of honey. Dean was willing to blame the wine and perpetual exhaustion for that.

"I hope you'll be willing to share this with me," he said, shaking the jar a bit as a gesture. Castiel's face broke into a soft smile.

"If you insist." He languidly stood upright and rested his arms on Dean's shoulders. They were so close now that Dean could feel the heat of the other's arms and chest, the coiffed hair on the front of Castiel's head nearly brushing his own. Dean could have said a lot of things in that moment, reaching over just a bit to settle the jar down again and put his arms around the other man's body, but he didn't need to. Because they had gotten rather practiced at simply looking at one another for all communication needed. And Castiel's eyes bore into his own with that remarkable spark of intensity. They were, in a word that didn't do much justice, beautiful. It brought upon a certain rapture that could have left Dean breathless, only he was too preoccupied staring to tell if he really had forgotten to breathe. Castiel's expression was searching and wonderful in all ways. And of course he couldn't tell, but perhaps he too was awed by the look Dean gave to him.

At some point Castiel leaned in and kissed him with a natural simplicity, and Dean touched warm palms to the parts of Castiel's cheeks still rough from the frostbite. For a moment, Dean was able to treat the rest of the world as if it didn't exist. Even the cold seemed to dissipate, after a while.

For now, it was just him, Castiel, and those precious days spent together in the mountains.

And suddenly, with that image in mind, Dean knew everything was going to be alright.

**xxxx**

**A/N: Dean's birthday is January 24****th****, placing this chapter as that date, Friday, 1930. A few people have remarked that certain mafia-related problems would be coming up by now, and while I'm not about to rule that out, there is a much greater issue in the works of this story: The Great Depression! One of the most infamous stock failures in world history, starting officially on Black Tuesday – October 29****th****, 1929. At its worse, 25% of America was unemployed, and the world economy wasn't fairing any better. Coping strategies included working the rather unglamorous jobs such as standing over a small pool of acid to clean machine parts, moving out to the West Coast, or simply… committing suicide. It was a rather difficult time for the bread-winners of the house, who suddenly found themselves unable to provide for their family and were occasionally forced to kick their teenage children out of the house to fend for themselves. Luckily, Dean and Castiel don't have the same burden that a regular family might possess, but it's not an easy era to live in.**

**Dean's dish is comparable to **_**Spaghetti alla puttanesca**_** – which was officially documented in the 1950s as 'Whore style pasta' since it was rather cheap to make. His recipe is based on one that I tend to use, so if any of you desire Italian recipes along with historical facts, feel free to let me know. On a completely unrelated note, I'm also participating in a Destiel fanfiction exchange for the holidays; which will be up on the community site around kid-December, and reproduced here as well.**


	17. Better than Before

The crash came in April – horrid weather. It was a brusque Thursday and Dean was wandering home a bit later than usual. His mind was swimming, thinking about this and that and looping back over again. He was hunched down in his jacket and the scarf Castiel and his family had given him, slouched so much that his nose was totally obscured and it looked like he could hardly pry himself from the outfit.

He had been irritable for a good two weeks, to the point where people at work immediately quieted down when he got closer to them. It hadn't improved, and yet when pressed he refused to say much about it. It wasn't another's business.

When Castiel asked, he had told him the same line, though the other did less than back off, and instead took to looking at Dean as if he was bidding his time, waiting for him to do something that would reveal the source of restlessness.

But it was the usual things that had happened to him; work was tedious now and dragging, but he scraped by. He got a letter from Sam two weeks ago, had sent a reply not long after and promptly tried to move on to other things on his side of the country. The Depression dominated and snuck its blackened presence into all the nooks of current life; Hoover, of course, continued to get accosted for his lackadaisical attitude, and he and Castiel stayed together, through the thick and thin of it all. But there was impatience to him now, and it left him surly and awful from the moment he woke up to the moment he got into bed at night. It became a part of his schedule at this point.

As he neared his building, he saw the landlord perched on the front steps. He felt a pulse thud in his hands as they clenched inside his pockets. The landlord of his building was named Haskel Crane, a stocky man with a thick neck and fair hair, who had been more of a shaded entity in the near-year Dean had lived there. Occasionally he'd see the man standing about in the foyer, smoking a cigarette or chastising a tenant who was late in their payments. Dean assumed he was waiting for that sort of thing – since there was no way a man would be sitting outside on a day like this to simply enjoy the weather.

The atmosphere was, in a word, dead. It was stifling; the lack of wind, heat and cold sucked out of the surroundings. Even with a torrential pour that had gone on for days, it went on. Just that morning the storm clouds had cleared and left the current ashy complexion in its wake, and Dean was fed up with it already. It was nothing compared to the whirling storms before, or the tentative heat that usually came about at this time. It was like the natural world was holding its breath, and Dean was exhausted by the lack of any sort of sensation besides the lowered temperature.

As he approached the steps to the entrance, intent of going upstairs to slouch in an armchair until Castiel came home from the tailor shop, Crane stood and held a hand out, stopping Dean in his tracks.

"Winchester," he said, greeting him with a nervous smile.

"Yeah?" he asked, not sure if the dread in his gut was completely warranted. He wasn't too sure why Crane would pester him now, and the only explanation was a sickening one: as landlord, he had access to all the rooms in the house; perhaps he had taken note that two men living in a flat had just one double bed, not a cot or a sofa to split sleeping quarters – or, more pressingly, the way their clothes would sometimes remain scattered on the floor, Castiel's dress shirt and slacks or the overalls he used at the canning factory mixing in with Dean's grease-stained work uniform in piles that suggested the garments hadn't been removed systematically and dumped, instead slowly removed one by one… such evidence was harder to hide now that Castiel wasn't just visiting for a few nights out of month.

Now that nearly everyone in the country had to tighten their belts, the parties, the booze, and all the fun had went up in smoke**. **So did all of those lenient attitudes to people like him as well, totally scattered in the face of toiling life. Dean hadn't known this kind of fear. It was one thing to see a man, or multiple men, once. It was quite another to have one by your side with the consistency of a wife. And still yet he was staring straight at the one man who had access to the bit of square footage left where no one would care who they were and what they did. While Crane had never gone into his room after he had moved in, the thought that he had made him feel ill.

But all Crane did was go, "The boiler went out this morning." Which would have been bad news to most people, but Dean took it with a sigh of relief. To cover it up, he pulled a match and cigarette out of his pocket and lit up.

"Shit," he said as a reaction. "How'd that go?"

"The storm last night overworked all the pipes, they flooded the basement."

"So you need a new boiler and new pipes," Dean suggested, breathing in the tobacco, letting it go in a puff. "At least it didn't go during winter. How long will the cold baths last?"

Now Crane shifted uncomfortably. "It's not just that…"

"Something else burst?"

"No." he wiped a hand across his chin. "Back before everything went down the tubes, I had the money to make repairs if something broke. But now it's just enough to make sure the taxes went in normal last week. I have nothing spare."

"When will you?" The apprehension reappeared, Dean felt his gut tense.

Crane let out a heaving sigh. "Not until I raise the rent." He said gravely. And then Dean froze, cigarette halfway to his lips.

"'Scuse me?"

"It's going up by twenty. I don't know for how long. At least this season and the rest of summer."

"Eighty a month?" Dean struggled out. He nearly dropped his stick, smoke still curling up faintly from the end of his fingers. "No… You can't,"

"You think this is easy on me?" Crane interjected, testily. "This is my job at risk here."

"You do realize that there's no one in your building making more than thirty a week, right?"

Crane's face started to grow pink, out of frustration or embarrassment. Dean's expression didn't give nearly as much away. However, he could feel that usual snappiness, filling him up and topping him off from the inside out. Now his rage had a direction, after days of being aimless and ambling, he had something to aim it at, and his body went hot at the concept.

"What do you want _me_ to do?" his landlord sputtered.

"Maybe have the goddamn foresight to get a decent set of waterworks before the economy went to hell, how 'bout that?"

"Don't get smart with me, Winchester." Crane snapped, the conversation going from politely conscious to brash in record time.

"Why not? If it'll help get some smarts into _you_." He crushed his cigarette with a stamp of his work boot, listening to the heel rub against the gravel. An animalistic part of him wanted to do the same thing to Crane's face; bash it in with something blunt.

"I can kick you out this second and there'll be a line down the damn block waiting to take your place." Crane leaned into Dean's face, breath full of stale beer the man had probably put down in order to get the courage to talk to his tenants like this, the yellow bastard. Dean had to hold back growling at him like a feral beast, because there was certainly a very thin line separating him from that now.

"Go 'head," he said in a rush. "Bet you I can find a place world's better than this hole. Fact," he stepped even closer to Crane, stretching himself taller and squaring his shoulders back. "Why don't you just help me haul my stuff out here, and I'll be outta your hair, bastard."

Crane cussed angrily for a moment, no message to be said, just pure rage expressed in blue words. Just when Dean was about to start another round of insults, a hand was grabbing his shoulder, pushing him away from the landlord. "Dean," Castiel hissed, voice rough and clipped like he was disciplining a child. The comparison made Dean blind again, and he shoved Castiel away.

"Get your hands _off_ 'a me," he snarled, fists out to his sides.

"That's it," Crane said, regaining his verbal footing. "I'm taking that offer. Winchester, you're gone. I want you out of my sight _now_. And out of my building –" But Dean was past the point of caring – past hearing, either, as he went up to the entrance, finding the door unlocked and heaving himself up the stairs with a heavy slap of his shoes. He really _wasn't_ acting any better than a child, a small part of him rationalized, but the logic he came up with did nothing to calm him down. By the time he got to the top floor, he slammed his key into the door and opened it with such force that it banged against the wall in the hallway, slamming shut as loudly. His anger was directionless once more, but he couldn't figure out a way to push everything back under the surface of himself. He wanted to revel in the injustice he felt; how dare he be forced to live like he was – how could the damned landlord go and swindle him out of money he had no way of sparing?

How could Castiel touch him like that – like he needed to be forcibly removed before he… before he…

His fist moved in a great swing, connecting with the window frame. Glass shattered in a high-pitched creak, and an explosion of cracked shards fell out onto the street and straight back at him. He punched the wooden frame again, _again_, three times, more? before there was a red stain on the wood and not a piece of glass was left connected to the wall. He was panting, sweat sticking to his hair, his neck, and he felt nothing. There was a swirl of too many thoughts, and in a way it was worse than the mindless indulgence of rage. He could feel that anger, that disappointment, except now it was facing inwards at himself, their potency more consuming than whatever the glass had done to his hand.

Through his harsh breathing he heard the door rattle behind him, and jerking around he saw Castiel standing in the open doorway. He was watching him, irises flicking this way and that to take in every minute detail of the scene before him. "Dean…" One of Castiel's hands curled, relaxed again. There was a queer expression in him, as if he wanted to grab at Dean again but couldn't risk making the motion.

Dean thought of the window, broken open. "What did you think, I was going to jump?" his fingers clenched, and he felt the sharp sting where glass had cut him, blood trickling out of the creases in his palms, welling along the tight skin of his knuckles. "Is that what you think of me?" He saw Castiel take a sharp intake of breath.

"Dean. You haven't been yourself lately," he replied carefully. He edged towards Dean as if he was walking across the glass scattered room barefoot. Dean realized he was making all the same moves a trapped animal might; trying to look threatening and unapproachable even as Castiel, like usual, ignored all social constructs and went to him anyway. He motioned for Dean to give him his bleeding hand.

Dean opened his mouth, about to say something sharp, to get Castiel away when a gesture wouldn't do the trick. Instead the other man leveled him with a withering stare. "Don't tell me your hand is fine. Stop being a child and show me." He felt an angry blush appearing on his skin, but Castiel was relentless. His hand still outstretched, his eyes still full of some sort of righteous command, as if he was a diligent leader of some sort, not a tailor.

"_Show_ _me_, Dean." He said again, and Dean slowly brought his right hand up and unclasped it, letting the other man see the damage as he watched on, with pursed lips and a calculating, suspicious look.

At once, Castiel's hardness seeped from his face, and he inspected Dean's injuries with industrious care. "You still have some shards –"

"–I'm _aware_," Dean interrupted. Castiel glanced back up at him.

"Go, take a seat on the bed… I don't suppose you have anything for that," he said, watching Dean's retreating form.

"There's stuff in the wardrobe," Dean responded, feeling a peculiar lethargy where he had to work to say words that weren't serving the purpose of complaining – but remaining silent would have only gotten him another bit of Castiel's wrath; and as unwilling as he was, he still wished to avoid that. "Bottom drawer, right-hand side." He heard Castiel's measured steps, mixed in with the occasional harmless crunches of glass. The closet door opened, a cavity pulled out, some rummaging. Castiel paused for a long moment, until Dean demanded what was taking him so long.

"…Nothing," Castiel said with finality. He walked back with a small container, a dented metal box that was shabby and appeared military issue; it was quite possible that it was a leftover from his father's belongings, but then again their constant shuffling around made any average and austere item get lost, its memory forgotten. More importantly, inside were more than a dozen items Sam and Dean had collected and restocked over the years, even before opening, he knew that inside there were brown bottles of medicinal alcohol and rolls of bandages; a periwinkle case full of tweezers and small scissors as sharp and shiny as when they had first been purchased; a magnifying glass similar to the type a jeweler owned, a few sewing needles and thread kept sterile in a jar of cleaning solution, and a six ounce bottle of some of the strongest whiskey Dean could get his hands on. Castiel inspected it; Dean took a cursory glance inside as if to confirm that all odds and ends were in place, and Castiel sat the box on the bed and walked off to the washroom, the tap going on a moment later.

Dean eyed the old case until Castiel came back, holding two towels and smelling strongly of soap; his shirt sleeves were rolled up, and he proceeded to drag one of the table chairs over with a dull screech on the floorboards, until he sat right in front of Dean, one crisp towel sitting on his lap like an oversized napkin.

Dean put his hand into Castiel's offering one, and his friend bent his head, assessing the damage for a moment before going back to the tool kit. He set to work silently, alternating for at least a quarter of an hour between cleaning the wound with a disinfectant-soaked cloth, and picking out the shards still embedded superficially into Dean's skin. It hurt after a while, more from the concentration on such a small amount of his body than anything else. He grit his teeth through it, determined not to talk any further.

After Dean was sure Castiel was done with the bulk of the work and had started to look over the lacerated, pink skin, he asked, "Think I'll need stitches?" His wound was certainly ugly; a few of the cuts were bleeding still, slowed down by a balm Castiel had smoothed over them. His knuckles felt swollen and sore, and there would be some sort of bruise on them soon enough; everything up his arm ached, his hand mostly, but even his shoulder and neck felt pulled, as if his form hadn't been right when he had gone off – probably not, he figured, you couldn't be expected to be smart about your hitting stance if you were mad enough to take it out on a window.

"No," he supplied, still turning over Dean's hand. "Most of the cuts were shallow, merely bled a lot. There's a few…" he gestured to three deep abrasions that were still oozing. They were deep enough that Dean saw a break in the skin where a small chunk had been taken out of his flesh – when Castiel passed his fingers over the spots, one right bellow his middle knuckle, one at the base of his ring finger, and another in the middle of his palm, he had to suppress a shudder as he felt the skin of Castiel's fingers actually sink down into the crevices. They hurt the worst. "They'll heal fully in a month or so. With a scar of course, but it's better than nothing."

"I'm used to scars."

Castiel silently reached for a roll of gauze. "Do you have any leather gloves?"

"My winter ones."

"You ought to wear them for work then." Dean jutted a lip out, nodded. He would do it, of course. His reckless move could just be the cause of some god awful infection, if he wasn't smart about it. Castiel carried on playing nurse, applied more of the bitter-smelling balm that felt cold on his skin even after Castiel let it warm between his fingers for a few moments. Soon his entire right hand was nearly obscured by bandages, hot and raw, blood buzzing underneath the snug coverings.

Dean refused to look at Castiel. Instead he willed himself to feel some sense of closure, a bit of peace, after acting out like he did. But all he got in return for it was an even larger impression of uselessness than before. That, and the burden of an injured hand. It had been a split second decision that made everything that much worse, and he hated it. He hated the apartment, the cold wind brushing against his back from the new hole in the wall, the old mattress he sat on, the gentle presence beside him.

"Done." Castiel said, pulling away. He put the chair back and started gathering up the supplies. "Do you want ice?" he asked.

His hand seemed to grow hotter at the offer. "No."

Castiel went about cleaning off the bed, rolling up strips of bandages he didn't use and putting them away; he took the towels – one with some splotches of blood, another soaked in ethyl, and put them out of sight before getting the wardrobe open again to put in the box. Once more, Dean heard the doors open, a set of drawers being pulled out, then… nothing. Castiel was still behind him, not moving, perhaps kneeling or crouching, looking into the recesses of Dean's belongings at something that he had hidden away until Castiel just now had a reason to go searching.

He attempted to guess what Castiel was looking at, before it struck him like a hundred blades of ice in his belly.

The metal first aid box was shoved into a small chest, had been since Sam had left and he'd moved in. But the chest held other, more incriminating things, and Dean's blood either curled in disgust or in a desperate hunger for what he knew he had left there.

Castiel's silence told him he was still looking at something. Dean knew what it was.

"I don't take that anymore," he said, into dead space. If Castiel was startled he couldn't see it.

"I never said that you did," Castiel replied, careful as he had been.

"You seemed surprised, at least. Why? Did you think I wasn't the type?"

Castiel came back towards the bed, eyes still fixed on the closet. "A lot of _types_ take cocaine, Dean. I didn't assume you would be…"

"What? Desperate enough?"

"I'm not trying to pick a fight with you." Castiel asserted quietly. "It caught me off guard that a person who used to be involved with that sort of thing keeps some vials in a trunk, that's all."

"That's all," Dean mimicked. "To be honest I'm surprised you didn't find those sooner."

"I'm sorry I didn't want to go through your belongings!" Castiel had shouted, his forced tepidness broken for a moment until he managed to reel it back in with a calming breath. "I thought _you_ of all people would appreciate some privacy."

Dean scrutinized him for a bit, the fingers of his broken hand unintentionally twitching. "So why start asking questions now?" he asked.

Castiel sighed, rubbed a palm over his cheek. He would need a shave soon. "Because I wish to _know_ you, Dean. I want to… as much as you'd let me. Which isn't a lot."

"What are you talking about?"

"You've been miserable for weeks," Castiel said in a rush. "And you won't tell me _why_ – not a general idea, not even an excuse."

"You want me to lie to you then?"

"I want you to talk to me." He nodded towards Dean's wrapped up hand. "So _that_ doesn't happen. I had to beg Crane to forgive you – I told him we were happy to pay the new rent." The look Dean got the moment he tried to speak up was enough to make him settle down again. "So now we're both angry, we have a broken window, a livid proprietor, and a few things to pay for with money we're not exactly abundant in. And all I'm asking you is to tell me why you wanted to hit glass in the first place, and you're treating me like some sort of monster for bothering with it all. Do you see what I'm telling you?"

Dean blinked. Castiel just let out another gust of air until he seemed to deflate. He sat down besides Dean on the bed, glancing at the other's lap.

"What does it matter to you?" Dean spoke slowly; he already knew of his stupid decision, and more or less the repercussions for it. Hearing some of Castiel's own frustration however, had hit him the hardest. The last time he had seen a flash of that was when Crowley and his circle of elites had worked the both of them over and left Castiel feeling played from start to finish. After that, Castiel had been an angel in a hundred different ways; putting up with Dean, his humor, his brash attitude, his surly behavior – Dean wondered, he feared, if the abundance of niceness had now run out, and everything after would decay. So he took a long time to swallow up every scrap of feeling until he could get an even sounding tone out of himself again. "Why do you need to know about my problems?"

"If they're bothering you this much… I think I should be aware of a few details. No one enjoys being kept in the dark."

"I can take care of myself."

"This," Castiel touched his fingers to Dean's hand. "Is not a good approach to dealing with an issue." He let his hands fold back on his lap. "You don't have to keep everything to yourself, you know. You should at least be able to talk to me about something that turns you into this."

Dean worried his lip. "It's family business." He said flippantly.

"We're family, aren't we?" Castiel sounded self-conscious. "Shouldn't we be, by now?"

Dean didn't respond.

"It's about Sam, isn't it?" Castiel asked.

"Isn't it always?"

"How does he handle you when you're like this?"

"I wouldn't put it past him to take my head and bang it into the window before I got a chance to break it all up."

"And how do you think Sam would feel, knowing that you're like this and won't tell him why?" Dean wanted to blurt out that it was different; that it was his brother, and Castiel wasn't Sam, but he didn't. He couldn't. No one would replace his brother – not Adam, not Castiel, nobody. But then again Castiel had seemed to find another niche within him.

Dean thought back to the vials, and knew that he owed Castiel a lot – more than he had given him, at least. It certainly didn't improve his mood.

"Sam and Jess are having a kid." He said grimly. Castiel was a stone beside him, obviously not sure whether to console or congratulate. In reality it was a bit of both. "Last letter he sent me, about two weeks ago, like usual. He said something wasn't quite right with Jess, they went to the doctor. The kid's probably a month, no more than two…" he was staring at the wall as he spoke, desperately wishing he could wring his hands. "And, and I'm happy for 'em, really. I am. I told Sam as much. I'm telling you as much." A restrained smile crept up onto his face and vanished just as fast. "But I'm not gonna be there in the fall."

"Does it matter?" Castiel supposed.

"'Course it matters," Dean said. "He's my brother – that's the point. How'd it be for you if you never saw Misha till now?"

"It's not as if Misha will remember if I was there for his first birthday or not." Dean snorted. Typical logic. "Then again, I'm younger. You would be the one to make sure the two of them got on just fine – that's your job. It's been your job since Sam was born, from what I can tell."

"Yeah," Dean muttered. "Just… we've just been there, the two of us. Even before Dad went, sometimes it was like we were the only pair in the world." His throat went tight as he spoke. "Now it's like we're not even in the _same_ world. It's like half of me got ripped out, and I'm trying to feel happy about it, really I am, but I can't. Not all the way." He turned to Castiel. "Do you have any idea what it feels like?" Castiel didn't answer. His face was pensive.

"Don't understand why you care anyways," he huffed, getting out his lighter and case, anything to distract him. "Stocks have been crap since last year and you're still happy as a clam. You said you're losin' your house, too!" He attempted to flick open his lighter, but the flame caught, snuffed itself out. He repeated it again, only to get the same result with his clumsy left hand.

"We're just renting out my space," Castiel said. "I sleep on a mat in Gabriel and Anna's room, if I'm not here." He watched Dean fiddle with the lighter before he got impatient and threw it across the room.

"Fuck it," he said, watching it clatter hard against the wall and skitter across the floor. "Fucking… oh damn it all," he ambled over to reach for the lighter again, but Castiel met him there at the same moment, their fingers catching. Castiel scooped it up first, not caring to maintain Dean's pride, and straightened up again.

"Let me," he said softly, fetching Dean's cigarette and lighting it. Dean sucked on it for a moment, brows knit and head bent forward in consideration of nothing in particular. "And I do care," Castiel added. "You're not the easiest man to get along with, but I care enough that I can… More than enough, I'd say."

"You do all right, Cas." Which was a decent compliment, coming from Dean at the time. If he wasn't so riled up he would have said something fonder, or perhaps the same line in a joking manner. "It just _gets_ to me, all this." He turned back around, fingers curling around the cigarette still stuck in his lips. "How come it doesn't get to you?"

Castiel let out a long whoosh of air, then smiled weakly. "It was not too nice, where I came from." Dean muttered his assent, but he knew the statement would be left as it was. Castiel had dodged it enough times. He sat back down.

"I'm sure," Dean said evasively, waiting for Castiel to change topics. Instead he got a curious look from the other, one that made Dean shy away a bit. Despite turning away it wasn't long before he felt fingers touching his chin, guiding him back to meet Castiel's gaze.

"Do you want to know?" he inquired. His voice was weighted, as if he had been pondering that train of thought for a while.

"About what?"

"Everything." Dean took a breath at the intense proposal he had gotten, everything else rushing away at light speed. Castiel went back to the bed, not settling next to Dean but instead up by the headboard, against the pillows. Dean slipped off his shoes and followed him, leaning on his drawn up knees.

"You don't have to," he ventured, giving Castiel one last excuse even if he longed to know for months and months at this point, wishing for the context of references, of a past Castiel had attempted to blot out.

"I want to." He supplied. "I said I would a while ago, and now seems as good a time as any. Well, better, actually. You told me something. I should tell you."

"Tit for tat's not meant to cover telling me your life story," Dean supplied. But the temptation to finally know was too much, and curiosity trumped gallantry. "But if you want to tell me, I'll listen."

"It's been on our minds most of the time," Castiel said, talking of his family. "Things are bad, but whenever one of us starts to complain, someone will always go, 'Remember how it was?' and then… this becomes bearable. Family should know the origin of each other." He concluded. He eyed the ceiling for a bit before he started speaking again.

"I was born in Russia, obviously. In or around 1898, I believe. We grew up in a farmer's village that told time more by harvest seasons than a calendar, so one can never be too sure."

"Where was it? The village?" Dean asked. Castiel didn't seem to mind the interruption.

"To be honest I couldn't even point it out on a map. It was north of Saratov, that's all, in a dead zone where there was just a lot of small farming towns all clustered. Places with no more than a hundred people – and livestock, and fields. Everyone you knew was your family, even if they weren't related, though chances were, somewhere down the line…" he shrugged, but Dean could hear the content tone of Castiel's voice when he remarked of family. He was mentally drawing himself backwards to over a decade ago, back when it was – "My Mother, Father, Anna was the eldest, then myself. And we had three younger brothers. Inias was about four years younger than I. There were also twins, two years younger than him. Alfred – we called him Alfie – and, and you'll love this, the other was named Samandriel. We called him Sam, of course."

Dean smiled instinctively. "They looked like their Father." He hesitated. "_I_ looked like my Father." He seemed to reflect on this, so Dean jumped in with another question.

"Did you like it? The place where you were born?"

"I suppose I did; I mean it wasn't as if I had enough perspective to tell I was living more like an animal than a man should – or that it was only by dumb luck I managed to learn how to read, but I had friends. Plenty of friends, I was hardly bored. It felt like nearly half the village was full of children my age – like Gabriel, he was there too; we would all play together – and two girls about Anna and my age, Hester and Rachel, they were sisters of Balthazar. I could go on with naming them all forever. There were… so many of us."

"You were relatively happy then," Dean surmised.

"Yes, that's a good way to put it. We were all relatively happy; for the first few years of our lives." He swallowed. "Then the War started."

It was practically impossible for Castiel and his family to leave their country for anything less than a war, and Dean had already heard enough slurred conversations or written histories to know exactly how many horrible ways Castiel had ended up in America, but it didn't make him feel any more prepared to hear the retelling.

"We were isolated, of course," Castiel said after a while. "It took some weeks, we found out the Tsar was gathering up all the able-bodied for war."

"Did your Dad die in battle then?" Dean blurted. His Father had enlisted in 1916, and Dean recalled the next two years in a blur. John had left him and Sam with a friend of a friend, a Pastor, in some dead town in Minnesota. Dean had lied until everyone there thought he was a sixteen year old, and he left school not long after the tenth grade started. It was the first time he had to live from letter to letter, a relationship on correspondence; he hadn't gotten any better at it for when Sam had gone.

Castiel looked down. "I don't know." His fingers were clasped together. "When the enlisting men were getting to neighboring towns, dragging away the older children – the so called men, my Father fled. He went off with a few others in the village, promised they would return if they could. I remember waking up in the middle of the night on the floor, seeing their feet – my parent's – with a bag slung across my Father's shoulders. I asked him where he was going. I was sixteen, but I was stupid. So _stupid_. I thought he was going to war early, or to the city, or – I'm not sure. All he said was 'It's not our war, Castiel.'" There was a pained expression on Castiel's face when he looked at Dean again, like a wounded animal who couldn't understand why it had been hurt in the first place.

"He walked out and we never saw him again. Perhaps he would have come back, but we never knew. Once the Germans began to push out, and they and the Russians talked of splitting up land, what was left of the village was abandoned, and we moved south, closer to Odessa.

"We were lucky we had all travelled together at the same time. We lived in tenements at the outskirts of the city for a while, my family, Gabriel's and Balthazar's, too. We stayed for about nine months. Gabriel was the oldest of all of us, nineteen or twenty, but he was short enough to pass for seventeen, he didn't want to go to war. None of us did. But we were all growing up. Soon enough there would be men in uniforms coming after us, making us march to our deaths, saying that they'd shoot us if we ran away. No one from our village was willing to die for a country that crushed us with the heel of its boot, and no one in the world liked the war once they realized how easily everyone was getting killed." He took a breath. "I suppose that the people of my village were more resentful than most; we didn't enjoy being reminded that we had a regimen at all. We had been cut off, before, so far away that government was more a fairytale than the Baba… um, a witch, that is." he said, catching Dean's eye. "Some of us went back to abandoned country sides, hoping to wait out the war." His eyes glinted. "Others decided that wasn't good enough. They left."

"That was you, wasn't it?" Dean whispered.

"Me, my family, my friends. About twenty of us in total, slipping into the night. It wasn't so hard. It was warm out, the summer of 1915, and who was watching the borders to war ground? The hardest part was getting out of the city, but they hadn't gotten around to creating fortresses around large populations. We hid from a few patrols and were clear of anything and everything by morning. We thought we were lucky; we could merely walk far enough and get new lives."

"Where'd you end up?" Dean asked.

Castiel furrowed his eyes, trying to imagine his journey on a map. "It's where the southern part of Yugoslavia is now. For us it was Serbia. Just below the warring countries, we assumed." He watched Dean's concentrated look for a while. "Remembering the history lessons?" he guessed.

"The newspapers." His expression was grave, coming upon a realization. "How was the fall?"

Castiel attempted to tweak his lips, but they were trembling too much to pull off a smile. "I had never seen the dying until then – the scorch marks of a massacre; death was present, but faded. It was in other places, not… not here. Or there, rather. People died if they were old, or if they were the righteous, doing a good thing."

It was easy to see where all of this was going, and Dean slumped further in his resting place next to Castiel, trying to brace himself. "That wasn't a luxury anymore, huh?"

"It wasn't a lie we were allowed to believe, anymore." Castiel took a large breath through his nose. "When the Austrians and Germans pushed the Polish and Serbs out of their land, we went with them." He explained, patiently, coldly, as if he hadn't been there at all. "It was a death march. All the way down to Bulgaria. Three hundred miles in less than a year. Everywhere we walked, through the forests, through the flatlands, there were bodies. Shot at, stabbed, decaying from hunger, everything smelt like rotting flesh. It got on your clothes, your skin, in your hair, on your breath – even if we weren't dying, because we were all close enough to it.

"I remember bugs, millions of them, just… _waves_ of buzzing black clouds on corpses, going through the air, engorged on all the blood." Dean swallowed, swore he could see a bloated gray face covered in flies if he closed his eyes. "But it wasn't just that. When someone died in our village – there was a funeral. A burial. Grieving. Out there, we had nothing." He looked forward, then to Dean. "Inias died first." He said bluntly; Dean knew he didn't feel as numb as his words suggested. "After a month. He died there, on a foot trail.

"We slept together, under blankets, tarps, stuck in the bushes, anywhere we could. Inias and I were under some brush one night, and it was pitch black out, and we heard something. It was a baby, just shrieking for… anything. Food, probably. Sometimes a Mother would pass and if the child had a Father, it would try to get another woman to feed it, or they would slip off from the groups to try and find a village. I told Inias to ignore it – it would stop sooner or later. But it didn't. We counted seconds. Maybe it was a few minutes, twenty, at the most, but it wouldn't stop. At some point, we heard some men get up, they were looking for the child – and someone might have started to argue with them, there were hushed voices, a strange dialect Inias and I couldn't place, especially not with all the screaming. They were talking, shouting, for no more than half a minute, maybe, this child shrieking over them without pause – until it did. Until it just stopped. The men went back to sleep, I couldn't. Inias couldn't either, we spent the rest of the night staring at each other, too scared to get out from our sleeping places to see if there had been blood.

"The next morning we walked. It was miserable out – rain and fog that froze us and covered everyone in mud. Inias kept slowing down. He was exhausted – we all were; we were all thin and disgusting, and I kept trying to grab his hand, to get him to keep going. I told him 'Two more miles, then we can get the others and rest.' But it was so hard, he started falling down, so I had to grip him 'round the waist and neck just to make sure he wouldn't go under and get trampled. I was dragging him, and my fingers would press into his stomach," Castiel reached a hand over and gently poked at the top line of Dean's ribs. "It felt like bars being hung over with cheesecloth. I mean, there was _nothing_ –" he pulled his hand away. "He passed out. Or I thought he did. He wouldn't answer me when I called him, so I went off to the side and he was – he was gone. The worst part was that I had to leave him there. I couldn't drag his body and find everyone before nightfall. I could only – I couldn't even dig him a hole. There was nothing – no shovels, no… I just covered him in a pile of leaves and grass and tried to find anyone who was alive.

"Hester found out first. She hit me." Dean stared hard, as if expecting to see a red mark on the other's face, like the gesture had just occurred. "She blamed me, I don't think she meant it all the way, but she did. Rachel had been ill, and we were older, we were supposed to keep our younger siblings safe, and she saw that failure in me. I found out later Inias had been giving his meals to Sam and Alfie."

The nicknames were almost too mild and harmless to use in Castiel's narration. Castiel licked his lips. "It didn't save them, either." He looked dead for a moment, and just for that sparse time Dean thought he could see a different version of Castiel; a starved, young man with flat eyes and stringy hair and a dirt-smudged face. He could see someone bogged down by the weight of fresh guilt. Castiel never said that he blamed himself for Inias, for his other family, but Dean already knew. The way someone would harden their eyes just to hide that look – he knew, of course, because it was like looking into a mirror.

He couldn't think of anything to say. Dean was of mind that Castiel didn't enjoy this retelling; couldn't handle it for much longer, though at this point stopping would only mean starting again. "Do you," he began, "Do you need a minute?" he asked. "A smoke?"

Castiel sat up further, rubbed his neck, as glad for the distraction as Dean was. "…Maybe." Dean eased himself onto his feet, put his shoes back on, and went around their apartment. He went to the cupboard and dug out a box where Castiel stashed his loose tobacco. There were a few already made pieces in there. He put a pot on the stove and boiled some water. Castiel watched him silently, eyes tracking his movements as he sought a good distraction.

He gave Castiel his cigarette; let him light it himself while he walked over to the wardrobe. He went through the bottom drawer, stared at the solutions of cocaine as he opened the box of aid supplies. By tomorrow he would smash the glass containers, pour the contents down the toilet and throw out the window glass along with the cheap little vials he had bought in a bar months and months ago. The glass clunked underfoot.

He took the bottle of strong whiskey and poured a quarter of it into a cup, filled a coffee mug with the hot water, set some black tea in it, and placed both drinks on the side table where Castiel sat, smoking, holding the ashtray.

"What are those for?" he asked.

"No coffee left, and you need that more than you think." Dean pointed to the pair of glasses. He took his shoes off again and shuffled closer to Castiel's body, their shoulders and thighs lining up against each other. "Now, what happened after?" Dean said, as soon as Castiel finished smoking. "Once you got to Albania?"

"Oh, we didn't make it there. We stayed at the border between Bulgaria and Greece. We were safe from the armies at that point, but it wasn't the armies that we were the most worried about."

"Did you set up tent cities like the Hoovervilles we have now?"

"Huh, no. No tents. The… the survivors, we all found abandoned towns, half burnt buildings from the war, remnants. Things that were hollowed out either by the armies or the Serbs themselves. In any case, we had the same lack of luxuries as a tent; no heat, no running water."

"Never fun," Dean commented. "It was hardly a battleground, but we've had to train-hop, Sam and me – Dad, too. Go weeks without a decent wash. It's not much compared to you," he amended. "But. Well, I can imagine." Castiel nodded absently at that, and went on.

Dean was both parts intrigued and horrified in what he was hearing. Castiel recounted everything, any aspect that had come across in grating detail, from how one of the refugees gave him the blanket that their dead son had used to how they had to hunt for acorns to make brittle tasting, non-rising bread in the winter. There were occasional, wondrous stories of people he met, and still even more vile ones about how desperation and hunger robbed every morale and ethic in your body. And always, _always_, the times were punctuated by a body count; Inias, then Rachel in the winter. Spring brought a new round of wetness and unexpected chills and weakened immune systems; Hester broke her leg and withered away to nothing by July. By then they had strengthened their makeshift residence, and stayed through another winter, only moving when a resurface of warm weather came in 1917. By then their Mother had passed, Castiel and Anna, Alfie, and Sam were orphans, and not long after new waves of refugees robbed their hovel and forced them out, down to the borderlands. Over time the little village, Castiel's childhood, Castiel's friends, were whittled down to a few before the next year, not always due to sickness and exposure. "Refugees," Castiel said. "It's such a harmless word. You don't always realize that some of the new citizens here, the things they've done… the things _I've_ done, just to survive."

"What did you do?" Dean asked. His throat and mouth had gone sticky as the hour drained away. It was dark out, and usually the pair of them didn't waste any time between coming home and eating dinner. But Dean didn't feel anything like hunger; instead listening to Castiel pour out his past was almost like an out of body experience. He wished Castiel felt the same as he recounted himself, but doubted it.

"We were still in Bulgaria, on the cusp of Greece. We could cross over without papers if we were careful, and I had gotten, well, careful enough, I suppose. We stationed ourselves in these alleys of vendors and gypsies, selling services. Not… well, we saw some people go to whoring, we went to begging.

"Once, a man claimed Gabriel and I took his spot. It was a place on the road, hardly a predetermined area, but he had a knife, and…" he rolled up his left sleeve, and pointed to a thin, pale scar. Dean had long noticed faded marks along Castiel's body, had traced them over with his hands, his eyes, his mouth, even – but now he settled for staring, feeling thankful that at least that skin had healed. "I had to stitch it myself. Our Father was the tailor, we were meant to take on his trade, and I was the most skilled in the group. Anna never got as much practice; in our family I suppose mending clothes wasn't women's work," he shrugged. "We were back there soon enough. Not long after, some young man came wandering by, he spoke our language, caught on to what Gabriel and I were saying. We talked a bit, back and forth. There was such a mixture of different Europeans by that time, what was frustrating was that sometimes you got close enough, but the accent alone was too much of a barrier. Anyone who spoke your language seemed a friend – most of the time they weren't, nobody was, but sometimes…" he trailed off for a moment. "Sometimes you got lucky.

"He saw my stitches, inquired about them, and I said that I fixed them myself. He asked if I had been a doctor. I wasn't – just half-decent at fixing clothes, and skin wasn't all that different, I supposed. He told me he worked in a doctor's office in town. He got this strange look on his face and we talked a bit more before he told us to come by the same place tomorrow." Dean tilted his head, still curious.

"He brought the doctor with him the next day. He said he had another possible assistant. Can you imagine that?"

"But you didn't know anything about medicine."

"Not many people in a bordering war zone did. If they had they were in the army, or they were rich enough to flee somewhere safer. The doctor was called Isaac Hein, he ran a private business in a nearby district. The young one, the assistant, Abram, said that I could stitch myself, Hein inspected the cut," he ran fingers subconsciously over his arm, "And he pestered me with a dozen questions; had I worked for a doctor? No. Was I familiar with them? Hardly. Could I read? Russian only, and even then my skills were questionable. Did I know my way around the districts? Fortunately, yes, from the border to about ten miles into Greece. I said if I could work, I just needed food and clothes for my family, I told him we walked so far, we lost so much… the doctor was not too interested in that, however." Castiel smirked. "He was something of a bitter character, but I didn't hate him. He did, after all, give me a job."

"How was that, then?" Castiel sighed.

"Very interesting. There was a lot of reading I had to do. He sent me home with medical journals to pour over all night. He had Abram teach me shallow versions of Greek to speak with the local patients, and German, and some small phrases in English. Hein and Abram had the notion that most of the world would be speaking English sooner or later," he shrugged. "Most of the medical communities on large scales spoke English or German, so it made sense."

"Lucky for you, right?" Dean said. Castiel nodded.

"It was no question that we would find somewhere to settle permanently before long, me and what was left of our family. We just didn't know where. It was only after picking through some bits of news that we were able to see a clearer picture of America. It was the usual note – it was a nation made of immigrants! Of course they would take you, they take everyone. Well, they did. And anyway, we knew we couldn't go back to Russia, and most places in Europe seemed just as wretched with war or unsettled by politics. America was worlds away from everything we'd ever known. It was perfect.

"It took another two years. I worked, I got everyone else by. Sometimes someone else would find some seasonal or shorthand work, but I was the one who held the brunt of us up. And even then it was hardly enough, but we managed, got money together for passage – whenever that came. We even befriended a few more travelers, ones from the Mediterranean. They had their own things to run from, I guess. Uriel and Raphel. Peculiar names, they kept to themselves well enough. They lost a lot of their own by that time, everyone had. They wanted to make it out, too.

"Of course it's hard enough to leave countries even if you have everything in order, Uriel and Raphael had been exiled from Greece for not having papers. We would have been as well, if we had just tried to get aboard a ship. We fled. There were no citizenship papers, no identities, nothing but the clothes on our backs and even then, the only thing that truly remained from home by then was our sewing kit."

"Like those scissors," Dean said. "With the gold-looking bird on them." Castiel seemed surprised he remembered.

"Yes. Those." He scratched his chin. "But Hein had most of the official documents needed. The trickiest part was just getting those pieces signed by him.

"I stole the papers," he admitted frankly, causing Dean to blink in surprise. "I forged his signature. He was immaculate, so it took nearly a year to get one for everyone. Balthazar, Anna, Gabriel, the twins, and myself. That was all that were left." He let his cold expression drop and instead a different look came up. A polite smile went around his mouth; it seemed almost mischievous in its amusement. "The first three I stole had already been filled in because I needed a proper template for the handwriting. It was for a Czech family."

"Oh?"

"Their first names got a bit 'smudged', but the surname stayed." Dean eyes widened in surprise.

"So that's how you became Novaks!" Castiel's smile grew a bit, and Dean slapped him on the shoulder. "You said you didn't know how that happened!"

"You can become rather impressively dumb, provided that you don't want somebody else to know a few things." he said slyly. "I found you attractive; I didn't find you trustworthy, at the time. If I gave you any form of the story, you only would have inquired further." Dean acquitted that was true; it was a bit better than some elaborate diversion he could have come up with instead.

"It does beg the question what else you weren't talking about," Dean offered. Like a horrid magic trick the room sank back to darkness, and Castiel went sullen again.

"It was, 1920. The summer, almost into fall. We were set to leave," he went in a melancholy tone. "Everything was finalized; we could travel down to the docks in a day, and move on from there. I only told our family, I didn't want to risk it."

Dean could already feel the scent of dread in the air, thick to the point of choking them. "I feel there's a catch here." He had to work to not crack his voice.

"Sam or Alfie. Or both." Castiel said. "They were teenagers, not even, they were _children_. They made some innocuous statement, said some _dumb_ _things_ while I was at work and everyone else was busy… Raphael and Uriel found out." And suddenly Dean saw how this story ended.

"I got home from the office. We had packed up every scrap we had, it was dark, and I was to walk halfway to our place and meet everyone there, but we couldn't find the twins. Anna and Balthazar and Gabriel had searched for hours, all the way into the woods, but they couldn't find them. We were losing time, and we were wandering around a nearby field, somewhere a lot of us buried bodies, made makeshift headstones marked with scarves or old jewelry. We couldn't find them." He swallowed. "Raphael and Uriel found me, though." He bit his lip and remained silent for a very long time, reaching for the scalding drink, he took a pull at it, offered Dean a bit, and put it back on the table when Dean declined.

"I don't know how," he whispered, and even though Dean was pressed right up next to him on the bed it felt like the other was miles and miles away, farther than Sam, farther than anything he could imagine. "I don't know how they managed it, but they found a gun.

"Guns were rare and rickety and unreliable. I'd shot some back home; it was another responsibility as the eldest son – to shoot off a wolf or a bear or some other animal that tried to get at our property. I was rather good at it, but the bullets would just spray once you shot them – they'd go everywhere. My aiming, I suppose, was still a remarkable thing." Dean felt his fingers twist into the sheets. In his mind, he saw a dead, sun-bleached tree rising up from the bog, a bullet placed right in the center of it. "I was by myself, maybe they were waiting for me, I don't know, I was just calling for my brothers when all of a sudden these arms were gripping me, holding me tight so I couldn't move, and there was a hand over my mouth so I wouldn't speak, and then I heard someone coming towards me, and eventually my eyes could make out his face. If a grim reaper had a face to it, it would be that. I was looking at Raphael." He swallowed. "And I was looking down the barrel of some rusty old gun.

"If I was thinking, maybe I would've realized that there was a good chance that if Raphael had fired it, he would've shot his brother, too. The gun could have been a prop, or some relic a soldier had dropped or a traveler had carried with them, I don't know. They could've bought it; the places deemed civilization were unorthodox enough to. I knew that if Raphael was there then Uriel was holding me. I knew that if they were doing all this, they must have known what happened to Sam and Alfie. I fought, got Uriel's hand off my mouth, asked them where they'd gone, why they were doing this," he wrung his hands. "But all they did was just gesture to some plot of land, about thirty feet off. The ground had been turned over a bit, and no one had died that I knew of in two, three weeks, but… I could smell the blood anyway. They weren't liars.

"They said they wanted the papers, they said that I had them, I must've taken them – they were in a little pocket I had made on the inside of my vest," he touched a hand to his chest, over his heart. "And Uriel was trying to find them and I couldn't – I wasn't about to just get killed in that field like a piece of cattle. I wasn't about to let everyone else find my body, too. The twins were gone, I promised them – we all promised them. Inias died for them and they just… they'd been the age I was when everything went to Hell.

"I threw Uriel off me. He was bigger, but we had started to eat half decent and we weren't made to sit back in a desk all day, even if I just worked on making clothes for a fair amount. Maybe, more than anything, I was just angry. So, _so_ close to being safe and they did that." He thinned his lips. "But I rolled him off, into the mud, I dashed forward to Raphael. He fired a shot at me but the gun must have been broken, or he was too slow with it, I heard the sound but it didn't get me, the shot sounded like it veered off, and I managed to hit him across the jaw.

"It was terrible; I hadn't hit someone before. Not like that, but Raphael had – he got me in the gut, the eye, I was wild just shoving him, biting him, whatever I could do. I managed to roll both of us over. I wasn't going to win, I knew that. At any second Uriel would come and punch me and that would be it." He took a deep breath. "But I saw Raphael had dropped his gun.

"I lunged for it, dragged my chin in the dirt for the trouble. It was so far away, but I got my handle on it and started hitting him again, or trying to – with my left hand. With my right I managed to get the barrel against his jaw, here," he tapped against the jutting corner where the jaw hinged onto the skull, right below the ear. "And I shot him through. There wasn't enough room for the bullet to jerk one way or the other. He died, or bled out or… something. I stumbled away the second his hands were off me.

"Then I turned around and I saw… I saw Uriel. Standing there." Castiel's face looked as though it had been hit. "He was staring at his brother, and he looked at me, covered in dirt and… and he knew. He suddenly saw what he'd done to me, what I'd done to him. What I was going to do. He dropped to his knees and was just… _begging_ me. Begging me with everything he had, to spare his life. He said he was sorry, he said it was Raphael's fault, he said he just wanted a safe passage, he wanted a home. He wanted what anyone else could have wanted in that moment." Castiel had been staring at the far wall for most of the talk, and Dean nearly jumped back when Castiel faced him. His eyes were resolute.

"I shot him." Castiel said. "He was sobbing. There were tears streaming down his face, he was pleading me for mercy, and I shot him in the head." He looked down at his legs, then back at the wall, and Dean realized exactly how out of his element Castiel was because this was one of the many times that night that he had evaded Dean's look, as if he couldn't bear to see it.

Dean nudged his leg into Castiel's, a more insistent press of warmth against their bodies, and hoped the other would get it, because Dean understood. He finally understood – just a little, just enough. If there was a moment of Castiel's past that he could ever comprehend, it was this one. The devastation of a dead brother; the unbidden, cold-blooded murder that came from it. Even if Sam was still alive, he knew. And more than that, there was the aftermath. It was always the same; the unspoken guilt that tore through you not like a bullet, not like a knife wound, but something larger, something worse. Something that would chase you down across an ocean, across time, in every flash of memory or mentioned name. If Castiel had a tender spot for Dean's brother especially, now he knew why.

"Balthazar found me first. Heard the shot and came running. Got me to my feet. I told him. I only ever told him – he told the others, they didn't think I was a killer. I did. He slapped me out of it, got me thinking again; we crossed the border, got enough for a one way ticket to America, and we got dumped on Ellis island in time for Winter to start up.

"We got into Sheepshead," he said with a sigh, curling in on himself. "Did dirty factory work before being employed as a tailor and assistants. Balthazar fancied himself a better gunman than a workman, and we drifted a bit, but only that much. We kept each other afloat, him and I. I don't think I could've kept on, if he wasn't pulling me for two years straight after coming here. I know you don't care for him, but Balthazar isn't my best friend for an arbitrary reason, you know."

Dean nodded thoughtfully, after a time. "And that's it?" he said.

"That's it. A year after arriving we got our shop, and I guess you can just stamp a happy ending on the whole package." Dean turned a little so he could brush his good hand across Castiel's forehead. "That's how it's supposed to go, isn't it?"

"That's how we wish it would," Dean murmured. "How did it all end up instead?"

"I don't know," he said. "Not nicely, not now."

"You've survived."

"I'm not afraid of dying, Dean." He blinked. "Not as much as I had been, in the beginning. I've seen it, I've waded through it. The thing that haunts me, the thing that I'll always remember, is how easy it was to just…" he took a breath, and his throat bobbed. "Kill them. And everyone tells me – I know you want to tell me, too – that it's not my fault; I was just doing what I had to, considering the circumstances. But so were they. We were all desperate, starving, trying to get out. The only reason I even had the _chance_ was just… dumb luck. A coincidence –they didn't get that.

"You've killed people before," Castiel said. "But did you know them?" Dean didn't answer. "I mean, we were _friends_, we taught each other our languages, we shared food – they were like brothers to me. And I could've… I could have _saved_ them, maybe, if I tried. Maybe they would have shot me in the back or maybe I would have gotten caught but I didn't even think to…" he raised his hand, wiped at his mouth, moving away from Dean's touch. "And it doesn't matter what anyone says, because I can still see their faces when I close my eyes. And I have to live with that." He looked at Dean. "I'll always have to live with that."

"I know." Dean said. He couldn't truly offer anything else. He knew, and that was all.

"That's why… just holding guns – I wish I wasn't so good at it, still. It saved my life but –"

"But at what cost?" Dean rasped out. Castiel nodded.

"…Are you glad I told you?" Castiel asked, after a moment.

"I don't know if glad's the right word," Castiel avoided Dean's eyes, until he reached over and touched Castiel's face again. "But if you want me to think that I should hate you for this… I can't. I won't. You stick by me and I've done far worse than kill two people who tried to murder my family."

"It's not a body count,"

"No, that's irrelevant. Just like what you did is irrelevant… I'll care about you no matter what you say you've done, Cas. If you think this will make me stop…" he couldn't say it. But Castiel knew. Castiel _had_ know.

Didn't he?

Castiel brought himself to look at Dean, his expression precarious, like it could slip one way or another. "Is it fair to say that you care, then?"

"Of course Cas." He said in a breath. "I mean obviously I care about –" Was it? Did he know? He licked his lips, evidently not, if he had to ask. If Castiel had to wonder whether Dean even had some bare compassion for him, knowing everything else was out of the question. "No," he said, partly to himself. "No, that doesn't even begin to cut it."

Dean got up on his knees, shifting closer so he was more in front of the other. He grasped Castiel's hand with his unbandaged one, threaded their fingers together.

"I love you," he said. Dean felt his heart thudding away; even from the points in his hands it echoed. He felt like he was on poison.

He hadn't been raised to be sensitive, to share in sentiments like this, and hearing Castiel talk about his own past only gave the other a better reason for being standoffish to the general population. If Dean didn't know firsthand of the other's caring, selfless nature, he wouldn't even dare say what he just had. Even now it was like a mistake, and he couldn't bring himself to look at Castiel's face.

He heard Castiel say his name, creeping out from the back of his throat in a scratchy murmur. "Dean?" he went, as if he wasn't sure he had heard right.

After a few moments of badgering himself, he cautiously glanced up to look right into Castiel's eyes, swallow up the fire that was trying to scorch him from the inside, set him off like he was nothing sturdier than a box of matches.

"I love you, Castiel," he said, not feeling particularly relieved as he repeated himself. He could be brave with a gun, but words and truth like this evaded him, confused him, scared him witless. He watched to see if Castiel covered up some sort of shame in hearing Dean's admission; Castiel liked him, enjoyed his company, but…

Castiel's carefully guarded expression was ripped away in an instant. In its place he looked… well there hardly seemed a word for it, in Dean's mind. Joy, perhaps, and relief. More than that, it was as if a light had gone on within the other, flushing his face when everything previous had been monochrome and dead from the winter and remembering.

And still yet his eyes were the vibrancy of a million things – of fantastical oceans and ancient world jewels and cloudless skies and the most cherished parts of an artist's palette – but Dean had stopped comparing Castiel to other things a long time ago – he had just suddenly looked bigger and brighter than ever. He was beautiful, in a thousand different ways in that instant, and not all of them were things you could see. There was an ethereal presence to him in that moment, and Dean squeezed Castiel's fingers, too in awe to do much but suck in a breath of air as Castiel stared right into him.

"I'm sorry I didn't say anything sooner," Dean whispered, once he found his voice. "I would've, if I knew you would take it like that."

"Like what?" Castiel asked, in a far-off, dreamy tone.

Dean smiled softly, and cupped Castiel's warm cheek. His fingers were blood-flushed, the other hand still in Castiel's grip, but he couldn't look away, couldn't resist the urge to touch. "You must've had some idea, Cas."

"I was willing to think that you liked me a little bit." Castiel admitted, suddenly looking humble once more. Just like that the spirit in his eyes died down, like he dragged himself back to a colder reality than where he had found himself floating.

Dean watched him, thinning his lips into a frown as he deciphered what that meant. "In all this time…"

"There's a concept," Castiel said lightly, "of false hope. I'm sure you're familiar with it."

"But why would you bother –" Dean started, pausing as that particularly sad thought took hold over him. Castiel had been thrashed through the rough for so much of his life; perhaps he didn't have it in him to hope for something too great for himself. "….Going along with somebody who didn't want you?"

"You do a lot, for love." Castiel said. And even then Dean only began to feel more guilt – that in all the time Castiel had hoped and loved and waited for him, he had no thought of reciprocation.

"But, if I only kept you around for some sort of fling, if it didn't go beyond that, you would have stayed anyway." Castiel's face betrayed his answer. "That's not enough. You can't hang all your life on a little bit, Cas."

"Well," he went. "I suppose I'm practiced at it."

Dean took in another shaky breath. What bothered him wasn't just that Castiel had been left with a deeply hidden sense of martyrdom – of sticking by those that he thought were important at the expense of himself, because he had that same behavior in spades, and he knew it – it was the fact that if Dean had never come to love Castiel, they could very much be where they were now, with Dean using and Castiel endlessly giving, until he eventually found a better prospect in someone else. If Castiel was Dean's first – first significant, at least, how would he be when Dean let him go? He mentally shuddered at the thought, brushing his thumb along Castiel's cheekbone a few times.

It was easy enough, to be a horrible person. A selfish, narrow-sighted, unfeeling person, since he was all those things himself, most of the time. In fact, he didn't know if he was better because of Castiel, or if he was merely better _to_ Castiel. All he knew for certain was that the type of perpetual suffering Castiel had grown used to seemed like a special form of disproportional languish, and he'd do anything to right it.

"You don't have a need for that sort of living anymore," Dean whispered, edging forward. He pressed soft kisses to Castiel's mouth and neck, embracing the warmth and a man who deserved so much more than what he had gotten in life. "I love you, Castiel," he murmured again, right against his lips. And of course a decade of unfortunate events couldn't be undone in a moment, but it didn't mean Dean wasn't going to _try_.

He could hear him say it, that Wonderfully quiet, "I love you, Dean," as they pressed together. Perhaps it was overly romantic, cliché most likely, but he could hardly give a damn about that when it was all undeniably _true_. They were affectionate in looks, in gestures. Words were playthings, mostly. Words were the things that helped you lie and hurt, and he doubted either of them would resort to sweet nothings after this.

But for now, it was nice, to put himself next to Castiel, hold him, be held, and not think of the window or the landlord or Bulgaria or dead family or guilt. For now it was them, and when he felt Castiel's lips at his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, Castiel was more alive than he'd been for most of his life. And Dean couldn't say he felt any different.

**xxxx**

**A/N: You know those stories where the author goes on unannounced hiatuses where you suddenly fear for the story's life? Doesn't that suck? Yeah. Luckily I will be releasing a destiel fic that took a month to write because it's so long, and hopefully that will soften this dry spell. So watch out for a story called 'Making Plans' in the next week. Moreover, let me reiterate that this story has eaten up consecutive weeks of my life; nothing less than my death or long-term incapacitation will stop this story from being written. But on to things that matter.**

**Castiel's back-story was largely inspired due to a teacher I had a few years ago, and the stories he told us about his grandfather who lived in Eastern Europe during World War One. One of the less-known tragedies occurred when in October of 1915 Germans and Austro-Hungarians pushed against the miniscule Serbian army, which also forced thousands of Serbian civilians towards Albania and Greece. In the unlikely chance that they survived, many of them were able to escape from Greek islands. The details of the grandfather's past helped shape Castiel's own story; such as using acorns to make bread, and getting transfer papers from a doctor's office, though most of the specific information was changed. Another point made was that the grandfather arrived in America in time for the Great Depression, and he worked in the same horrible conditions as the Novaks do in this story. But, due to the lack of starvation, rape and murder that was previously seen, he had no problem holding work and providing for his family. Thinking of these events had been one of the very first plot ideas I had for this story, and it's nice to finally write it all down. Also, we got ourselves a love confession. **_**Finally**_**.**


	18. Prophets of a Dead Man

"Careful around the ears," Dean said jokingly. The Novak's flat was peacefully tranquil; early evening sunlight filtered a dusky glow around the room, and the weather had stopped being so miserable out that people could stand to have a window open. From where Dean sat in the chair, he could stare at the light blue curtains over the kitchen sink, and sometimes the distant shouts and sounds of a passerby below would drift up into the room. Gabriel was behind him, and once in a while the snip of scissors would pause just long enough for him to run his hand along Dean's scalp, making sure he had given him an even cut.

He still didn't have work Fridays, and Gabriel had been let go from his factory after a season. That was typical; Anna herself had switched jobs thrice since November; now she worked up north in Crown Heights, painting labels on cans and packaging. The hours were longer, the wage a cent worse. Gabriel seemed jealous, not because he fancied himself as a bread-winner for the family; he just got rather bored holed up in the shop with no one to talk with.

Dean allowed himself visits to the apartment even when Castiel wasn't there; usually he could spend an hour or so at the flat and wait for Castiel to come home, and they would walk to their apartment together, usually before the Novak's new tenant had gotten back.

With Castiel scarcely home they had rented out his bedroom to another factory man, his name was Thursten, or something along those lines. A teenager who, if Dean had to guess, had probably been kicked out by his family during the last few months and made his way to the city in hope of finding work. He was quiet, according to the Novak's accounts of him. He ate dinner with them and washed the dishes he used and always made sure he paid what he owed, so no one could complain. It did mean that the already small place was confined more, but at that particular moment, on a Friday afternoon, there was nothing for him to do except suffer in joint ennui with Castiel's brother-in-law, and get a haircut in the process.

Gabriel had offered to trim his hair of his own volition. Or at least, he made it seem so. Anna might have edged him that way, but now it was just the pair of them in the flat, aside from Misha, who was patiently entranced by a few wooden carvings on the floor in front of Dean. He was blessedly quiet, for a toddler. Dean told Gabriel so and he scoffed.

"He behaves around _you_, but that's about it. Little devil, most of the time." Dean would have shrugged, but didn't want to incur some sort of wrath from moving around too much.

"Do you cut everyone else's hair?"

"It's a skill, whenever Misha needs it. Anna used to ask, but with the equipment she's around now we just got most of it off, so she won't be needing more maintenance anytime soon." Anna's hair sat around her shoulders now. She was still lovely, and most of the factory girls had the same, short-cropped style so it wouldn't get sucked into open parts of turning machinery. It wasn't any stranger than the blazing red color of her hair to begin with. What was a peculiar thing was how quickly short hair came to mean practical versus fashionable. Before, Dean only saw it paired with a mink scarf and a headband lined with peacock feathers – now it was for the working class. "I never cared to cut mine much." Gabriel offered.

"I can tell," Dean said. "What about Cas?"

"Castiel?" Dean could hear an off-kilter smile come through in his voice. The cold press of the metal scissors gently touched his skin, making Dean flinch from the feel of it. "We practically have to tie him to the chair. You've seen how bad he is with shaving." Dean chuckled.

"I like his hair," he remarked without really thinking about it. It was soft, feathery, and while Castiel preferred to stare at Dean's reflection while he went through his morning routine than bother shaving himself, the rest of him tended to stay immaculate, at least before his second job covered him in grease and sweat and god knew what else. For the most part Castiel smelt like soap, either from the bath or the industrial mix the shop used for stain removal and detergent. "It does get mussed up a lot, of course."

"Sure that's not your fault?" it was a teasing comment; though it made Dean's back grow uncomfortably warm.

One of Misha's toys skirted along the floor; a small boxish figure with wheels, painted with bright colors to simulate a fantastical car. Dean nudged it back to him with his foot. "When's he getting back, anyway?"

"Soon," Gabriel said in a non-committal way. "He and Balthazar were going around to shop for a bit, I think." Misha, deciding Dean was offering himself up as a playmate, rolled the car back towards his feet. Dean pushed it again with the toe of his shoe, smiling wide when Misha looked up at him for a moment.

"I see." he went, once the child ducked his head again. He and Balthazar had a few encounters since the summer. Dean didn't particularly enjoy them. "I can tell you're not a fan," Gabriel said lightly.

"He's not exactly a fan of me, either."

"You two just don't know how to share, that's the problem." The scissors were set on the table with a dull thud. "You're done, by the way." He brushed Dean's shoulders to get rid of the strands of hair that had fallen on him. "You can go look in the mirror."

Dean walked into the washroom to examine Gabriel's handiwork. His hair had stopped looking uneven and shaggy and had transformed back into the short, smooth look he preferred. "You know, I bet Sam's hair is as grown out as yours," he said from the bathroom. "I was the one always teasing him about it."

"What about his wife?"

"Yeah, right. The bobs came and Jess didn't move an inch. Out there's just some unconquered wasteland, plus a few movie stars. No one's gonna make them do anything. California's meant for the strange people."

"Strange people _and_ beaches," Gabriel added. Dean watched a grin slowly come to his face.

"That's what I'm talkin' about!" he said, walking back into the kitchen. Gabriel was clearing off the table where he'd set his combs and other supplies.

"If we ever got the chance I would have to drive out there myself," he admitted. "All the way west and down through the Mother Road. You're thinking of going out there yourself, right?" Gabriel asked.

"Soon as I can. Which probably won't be that soon, anyway."

"That little contracting deal."

Dean hummed. "Cas tell you about it?"

"Only in passing. It's that usual deal work, anyway. Are you waiting for specifics?"

"More or less; it's bound to just drop out of the sky. Could be today, could be two years from now, I'll get a notice for a last job and get sent packing."

"And then what?" Dean cocked his head.

"What do you mean, 'and then what'? I leave, go to California, and find my brother." Gabriel glanced up from the table for a moment, but if he was thinking to say something, the door behind him opened up first, and the subject was quickly discarded in favor of welcoming Castiel and Balthazar in.

"How was the market?" Dean asked, getting handed off a bag by Castiel.

"As usual," Balthazar answered. His attention quickly landed on Gabriel. "Prices on bread went up again. Think you can be convinced to make your own soon?" the other man shrugged; he and Balthazar started some idle chatter while Dean and Castiel put away groceries.

"We needed more canvas needles," Castiel said by way of greeting. Dean hovered beside him. "Then Balthazar and I walked through the park for a while."

"See anything interesting?"

"A Blue Jay," Dean smiled. "But other than that it was the same neighborhood of people, walking by."

"Funny that New York has enough numbers to be its own country but everyone sees the same things." Castiel began stacking cans away in the cabinet.

"Unless you're used to travelling all your life." Was the cheeky comment he got in return. "_You're_ just stuck, wasting away in this one corner of the Earth forever," He turned back around, folding up the now empty paper bag. Dean leaned close enough to him that the tips of their shoes were just touching.

"Oh, I manage, I suppose," he murmured. Castiel copied his content expression and shoved his shoulder with a huff, stepping past him.

"Weren't you two supposed to be leaving?" Balthazar said. Dean tried not to jump, but judging by Gabriel's muffled snort of laughter he had ultimately failed on that front.

"Yeah." he said, trying to cover himself. He glanced over at Castiel. "Yeah. We were."

"Good, I can walk Castiel out." Dean bit the inside of his cheek to hold back any comments he had. He and Balthazar strode up to the door at the same time, Castiel trailing behind as if he couldn't sense the crackling tension between the two men. Dean felt like he was thrown back into clumsy adolescence, trying to gain the affections of some girl in an arbitrary, dusty town, both of which would usually end up being forgotten in not even a year, though Dean's pride was the most worrying subject to those past endeavors.

Of course now everything had stretched and shifted and mutated into another beast altogether; at least he didn't have to worry that Balthazar wanted Castiel in the same fashion. That notion gave him a terrible feeling, deepset into his bones; enough to make him shudder and get a questioning look from Balthazar.

The three of them were halfway down the steps when Gabriel called down to them, "Castiel, I just remembered something." His shadow appeared in the doorway. "The shop's finances for last week – that business?"

"Oh," Castiel said. "Right." The staircase made a series of low, whining notes as Castiel stepped up them again. There were no windows in the corridor, so Dean could only barely make out his figure.

"I can wait –" Balthazar started, but Castiel waved a hand and said over his shoulder not to bother.

"It'll only take a minute," he said. Dean could just see a frown crease Balthazar's face and it improved his mood tenfold. "Dean can keep you company in the lobby till I come down."

And suddenly all that congratulatory happiness was swallowed up, and Castiel shut the door to the flat, leaving the two men stuck in the dark corridor. For a moment neither Dean nor Balthazar could think of something to say, and dumbly stared up at the door leading to the Novak's flat, as if it were bound to open again any second now.

"I think they planned that," Dean said, at length.

"…That's a larger possibility than I care to admit." Balthazar sighed and turned around, going the rest of the way down the stairs. It took Dean a minute before finally deciding that even being in the shop front with Castiel's friend was preferable to standing in a musty, black hallway, so he followed suit.

Balthazar was sitting in one of the chairs in the shop, smoking, when Dean rounded the corner and saw him. The cigarette paper was of the mass-produced white, but the smoke left an unfamiliar tang in the air as he approached. The blonde man watched him with squinted eyes, trying to make a shrewd judgment, perhaps, of how they would interact with one another. "Suppose they're keeping us here till we learn to play nice?" he said, broaching the same line of thought Dean had intended to keep to himself.

"Sounds about right." He didn't feel so much like sitting, though already in the middle of the room meant that he had to awkwardly stay in place, a solid mass of unwavering self-assurance. He put his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

"How's Castiel?" he asked; Dean pursed his lips. If he were to talk first, he knew that would've been what he'd say. The only thing the two of them could talk about was Castiel.

"Good, I suppose." Dean replied. "I haven't seen him since yesterday night."

"Oh?"

"He left the apartment before I got up." He reveled in that note; that he was the last person Castiel saw before going to bed, the first thing his eyes fell on when he woke. There was that sort of closeness Balthazar would never be able to touch. Not now, not ever.

But Balthazar just smirked, inspected the floor by Dean's feet, like he knew exactly what he meant by the comment. "Didn't wake you up before he left, I see," he supplied at length.

Dean swallowed. "Well, I don't need to see him every moment to make sure he doesn't run off."

Balthazar let out a chuckle, brought the cigarette to his lips. "Ah, that's true; by now you definitely have him on a leash." His motions were delicate. Even though he was sitting, it was obvious that he had a small build, something around Gabriel's stature, and older by a bit. His face was aged in a way to mistake him for kindly, but Dean knew that was more façade than truth; Balthazar had his own dark roots around the shipping yards by the bay, according to Castiel. He had just as much blood on his hands as Dean did. If they weren't connected to the Novak family like they were, one of them might have started making threats.

He probably had a gun hidden away in his suit, Dean figured, sticking a finger out from his fist to soothe along the cool bulge of a pistol hidden away in one of his pockets. His fingers twitched from the touch. "I'm not sure I follow you." Balthazar's arm went behind the chair, and he relaxed into a slouch, as if to play off of Dean's rigid shape.

He took the cigarette out of his mouth for a moment and gave it a confused, scrutinizing look, then did the same to Dean's face. "You're aware that your dislike of me isn't mutually exclusive, right?"

Dean was. "But you did say Castiel wants us to be civil to each other, and he won't think –"

"What gives you the impression that you would know what Castiel thinks?" Balthazar cut in; he did a much better job of pretending to be patient than Dean ever could. "Of course he does seem to be fond of you for some obscure, illogical reason, too much heart and all that – stays with you, fine." He raised an eyebrow, as if he was expecting Dean to know better. "But that doesn't entitle you as his owner, and it doesn't mean that you have any capability to know how he thinks."

"But you do," Dean accused.

Balthazar leaned forward in his seat. "You don't have the faintest clue of what he was like before you stumbled in on him, swept him away to your side of the city. What it was like for him, here and home."

"Which home? Russia or Bulgaria?" Dean snapped. He would have regretted saying that if it wasn't the one thing that seemed to catch Balthazar off guard.

His eyes widened by a margin – it was something. "He told you?"

"Everything." Dean said. "He told me everything. About his brothers, about the village, the march, Uriel, Raphael, he told me everything."

"…He's barely been able to say that to his sister." Balthazar spoke conspiringly, as if he wasn't talking to Dean anymore but some other confidant that was sitting in the chair next to him, which in reality was only open to air.

"We're family," Dean persisted. The other man stared up at him. "Him and I. His sister, Gabriel – you, even; he said he wanted to tell me. Said I ought to know."  
>"Family." Balthazar gave out a dry, nearly silent laugh and took another breath of smoke on the next inhale. "Such a sentimental thing for <em>you<em> to say."

"I have a family,"

"You have a brother. And you didn't have to fight tooth and nail for him. Not like we did."

"It's not a body count," Dean echoed, wishing Castiel would appear already. "And speaking of not knowing a thing about someone…"

"You think I have to read your life story to know that Castiel is coming off worse being with you? I don't." He tacked on the last sentence as an afterthought.

"He's happy," he said, feeling more than a little self-righteous because that _was_ _true_. Anna had told him it was true. And just by saying that he loved him, Castiel admitted the same.

"For now," Balthazar agreed. "Unless of course you happen to get into a mood and send him into a blue spell for days – like last month? That broken window?"

Dean felt embarrassed all over by that feral overtake on his brain. He would have inquired with another 'He told you?' but instead went, "I fixed it. We fixed it. And not the window, I mean," he added when it seemed as if Balthazar would interrupt him once more.

"And I'm sure nothing like that will ever happen again."

Dean sucked in a breath. "Are you jealous?" he asked, "Is there some sort of unrequited affections that aren't getting across? Because to me it sounds like you don't want Cas to be happy."

"We're friends," He stated firmly. "I don't like the sort of elation he gets from you."

"Do you want someone else to take my place?"

"Well if you have any references I can look into, I wouldn't mind. If anything though it's you or bust. Women stick in Castiel's head like your mind and intelligence. He's not flexible like you. And even if he was he'd rather become a monk than go around and go by your methods."

Dean began to wonder if Balthazar was a good friend at all, moving his hands so he could discreetly wring them behind his back. "A bit selfish, don't you think?" he grunted.

"I'd rather not get his hopes up that you won't hop the next train out of here. Desertion isn't a habit _families_ keep up." He let out a facetious sigh. "Then again, you _did_ let your brother go in the first place."

"You shut your mouth about him." Dean demanded, his mouth twisting into a scowl. "And like hell you know what I'm going to do. I'm not leaving Cas in the dust," he said, even if he wasn't too sure about that. "I'd do anything for him. His family. Anything to keep him happy," Dean said. "Which is more than can be said about you."

"Martyrdom – that's also nice notion," Balthazar commented. "Though it does beg the question _why_. Happiness for its own sake is, after all, rather boring."

"I'm sorry romantic things aren't interesting to you."

"Oh you're not romantic; believe me, I can tell. Castiel's the only one pure enough for that sort of thing between the three of us."

Dean fought the urge to move from his spot on the floor. At first he was standing still to prevent from embarrassing himself; now he just didn't want to risk getting within fighting distance between the other man. "Well, do you have any theories, since we want to wax philosophical for a bit?" Balthazar paused for a moment, savored his cigarette at an aggravating pace.

"Well," he went, "if I were to keep a little pet in a cage, it'd be a good practice to keep it happy. Makes me feel better about trapping it there."

"The only problem is that I'm not like you."

Balthazar shrugged. "Well then, what keeps you under lock and key?" He stood up. "So Castiel loves you, then." Dean looked to Balthazar, startled by the frankness of his words. So much so that he couldn't pry his mouth open and speak, though he might have made a squeaking sound in the back of his throat. Throwing that out in the open might have been worse than Balthazar's fist in his face, for how unbalanced and out of breath he felt.

"We both do," he said at length, feeling uncomfortable at admitting that to the other presence beside him. He took a glance to his sides, as if paranoid that other people could hear them.

"So what?" Balthazar said, leaning against the wall of the store, staring at the clock. "People mistake that for virtue. It's a real trouble, you know. Love's a feeling; a catalyst. It doesn't do things," he looked pointedly at Dean. "People kill other people for love, you know." Dean felt himself scrabbling back some control in the conversation; enough to actually force a rueful smile on his face.

"Cas ain't killing anybody for my sake." Once again Balthazar gave a curious look.

"Would you?" he asked, though Dean refused to answer. He carried on in an almost gentle tone; not patronizingly down-to-earth, this time. "Castiel is… surprisingly vulnerable, sometimes. Out of desperation, I think. He's been unhappy for too long, the things he'd do…"

"You're lying; he couldn't hurt a fly," Dean argued. "He wouldn't." Balthazar gave him a pitying glance before walking over to the shop's front door. Dean thought he was going to walk out for a moment, but he merely flicked the cigarette butt out onto the gravel before turning back to the other man some ways away from him. The closing door brought the smell of dust and pollen through – the scent of spring that almost made Dean's eyes water.

"People can do a lot of things, if you give them enough push."

"So, what? I'm going to push him?" Balthazar gazed outside for a long time, his arms crossed and his neck stretched to an awkward angle, like someone had twisted it that way. He got a peculiar look on his face, as if he was recalling some sad moment comparable to now.

Dean wondered suddenly if Balthazar had given Castiel the same sort of silly talk – if less insulting – and Castiel had likewise brushed it off as the extraneous worries they were. Balthazar could have accosted Dean, if he wanted; as a pansy, someone who was blackmailing his friends, and he could probably round up a few people who would try to get rid of him. You could do a lot of things with a gun and the cut throat attitude that Balthazar had. But instead all he did was talk, and try to get Dean to listen.

Personally Dean wasn't sure if Balthazar was being wise or incredibly stupid.

There was the sound of steps coming towards them, getting closer to the ground floor. Balthazar looked back, checked the clock on the wall one more time. "He never had options, before you came along and wrecked it."

Dean felt like he was missing a dire piece of the puzzle, a part of Balthazar's message vitally misread, but before being able to demand what, in plain English, the other was spewing on about, Castiel appeared between the two of them and an overhanging silence threaded over the pair like a smoke cloud.

"That business all cleared up?"Dean asked, splitting his gaze between Castiel and his friend.

"Oh, yes. Everything's sorted." He didn't try to elaborate and Dean could have rolled his eyes if there weren't two sets already on him. "We can go now, unless you two were still talking?"

Dean shook his head, just as Balthazar murmured, "No, no, we're all finished here," and opened the door for the pair of them. "Have a nice evening Castiel."

Castiel gave Balthazar a cordial smile, and a wave. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said easily, stepping out the door.

"Bye, Balthazar," Dean said, feeling uneasy as Balthazar's dark eyes bore into his. His heart was in the same spot Dean's was, even if they had very different ways of seeing it. Dean was still all for smacking the guy across the head, obviously, but Castiel wanted them to get along, he knew he did. If he had to have another painful conversation with Balthazar to try and form some sort of truce in the matter, well, anything to make Castiel happy, right? Happiness for its own sake.

"Have a good afternoon," Balthazar said to him, his stare easing, as if the same thought struck him as well. Dean nodded carefully at him before turning around and, following Castiel's lead, slipped away.

**xxxx**

"What did you and Balthazar talk about?" Castiel asked, after the shop was half a block behind them.

"You," Dean said. "We don't have much in common besides that." Castiel was staring at the ground, a small smile on his face. He was oblivious to Dean's unsettled nerves, as if his gut had been replaced with a bag of agitated snakes. He glanced over his shoulder, but there was no figure, nothing strange lurking there.

Dean tried to flush out the awful premonitions Balthazar had planted; he risked another glance at Castiel, wordlessly walking in step besides him. They crossed the street and enough buildings were cleared from the westward path that the sun broke through and settled on the pair in a long line of bronze light. Castiel's skin grew darker, his hair lighter, and Dean could make out the eyelashes that moved as he blinked. It wasn't a special sight, per say; anyone on any street corner could look like that in this light – but it still made his steps a lot lighter than before, and it took a moment to realize that he hadn't inhaled.

It was moments like this he inconsiderately wished Castiel was a woman, if only so he could grasp the other's hand, kiss his cheek without risk of the sight becoming far-reaching gossip or a claim of public indecency. He heard some news reports like that come out, about some semi-prestigious men caught in bed with someone of the wrong sex; those stories usually had the word scandal repeated ten times from the title down. He wasn't sure if stories like that had increased in frequency, or if he was purposefully looking for them more.

It was agonizing, to think this way. He reached for his cigarette case. "Lend a light?" he asked Castiel, who had a match hissing to life seemingly a second later. They leaned into each other while Dean fed the end of the smoke into the fire. "I could kiss you right now," he muttered in a quiet, casual tone. He pulled back and watched Castiel stomp the match onto the ground.

"What?" Castiel asked, "For a light?"

"No, just for you." Dean started walking again, proud of the secret moment he had created in public. He felt even better when he saw Castiel frozen, a few paces behind already, still caught off guard by Dean's compliments.

Dean smiled again, around the cigarette in his mouth, and tilted his head to remind Castiel that he still had to walk home: Suddenly he was feeling much better.

**xxxx**

Dean still approached the apartment warily, in fear that Crane would be skulking around to either bear more bad news or decide that Dean didn't deserve a place in the apartments. They could get a new place if they had to – worst case scenario they would be in Castiel's old room instead of that kid – but he didn't want to do that; the apartment had grown on him, or the presence Castiel had left there had. They walked up the stairs and got into the room around the time when most of the sun was below the horizon, and the clouds had gotten a candy-colored tint to them.

Before Castiel could even put his coat on the rack Dean was kissing him; he could in here, after all. Just against his jaw line, at first – to get his attention.

"You can definitely kiss me now," Castiel suggested, putting a hand around Dean's neck. He glanced a little above Dean's eyes. "Oh, he did cut your hair. Gabriel said he would. Do you like it?" Dean hummed in agreement against Castiel's lips before sliding forward again, slow and simple, just a press of warm lips to another's, all the while drawing Castiel closer to him.

"Not that much different, I just wanted to make sure it didn't get out of control like yours." Castiel pretended to look insulted, and it was an almost convincing expression until he chased Dean's mouth with his own, and slid a leg out to press against Dean's calf in an attempt to get any more menial, boring talk to stop in its tracks.

There was a knock at the door. They gaped at one another for a moment, unsure if they heard right, but when the knocking resounded again they went apart, Castiel smoothing his clothes down as if the smallest wrinkle would give them away, and Dean wondering who was on the other side of the wood and wishing once more for a peep hole.

The door opened and Dean forgot to breathe for the second time that day. Not for a good reason, though.

"Are you going to invite me in any time soon or are we going to have a staring contest in the hall?" Crowley said, turning his head slightly like another person would make a shrugging gesture, asking for someone to do something. Dean wordlessly stepped out of Crowley's way, and hesitantly shut the door back up. His boss was impeccable as per usual; he wore an imposing, black suit that was probably imported and worth more than Dean's life. His posture was ramrod straight, and he could sense the ice lining the superficial warmth of his words; he could already feel a flash of chills sweep through him as he tried to figure out what to say to the man who had just wandered into his home.

Despite that, though, Dean wasn't necessarily afraid of Crowley; some people were, but after dealing with Alastair and Lucifer, his new boss's affable nature was a breath of fresh air. Wariness was usually enough to deal with him, even if the other was currently scanning his room like he knew every intimate secret it contained. Finally his gaze rested on Castiel, standing awkwardly with his hands hanging like dead-weights, his overcoat still on him.

"Nice settlement here. Affordable." Crowley eyed Dean again as he stepped more into the room. "Do you rent out half your bed to him or is there a more insidious reason for this _mudak_ to be here?"

"It's none of your business who comes into my own room," Dean said indignantly. "Or for what, and it'd be better off if you didn't mention it again." He wasn't a fan of these casual attacks on his personal life, especially twice in one day. Behind him, Castiel swallowed and looked a shade paler, though it was hard to tell if that was from the slur or the implication Crowley had crudely drawn for them.

His boss appeared exasperated. "You're getting the impression that I care what you stick your prick in." He made a waving motion with his hand, dismissive. "No, I have something to discuss with you; it's hard enough coming here unnoticed. I don't need your _friend_ to tell the whole neighborhood."

Castiel reflexively went to the door, hand on the knob and ready to depart without comment. "Cas," Dean called out, trying to assure him without any other word as he stared at Crowley. "I'm getting the feeling this isn't about a regular job," Dean offered.

"No, it isn't. So it'd be a shame if someone opened their mouths and spoiled the surprise."

"Actually," Dean said, watching Castiel slowly step back from the door and retreat back into the room. "This is something he ought to hear." Castiel hovered by Dean's side, still silent, gaze lowered. It was hard to say who Crowley focused on more. "I trust him with my life," he added. "He wouldn't say a thing to his own sister if I told him not to. Right?"

"Of course," Castiel said immediately.

"Well, nice to see you do have him trained," Crowley noted. "Did you teach him poker, as well?"

Castiel raised his head, now realizing that Crowley had remembered his presence at his party long ago. His tone remained polite, but cold and removed, out of touch. "Card games have been in my repertoire for many years."

"A master at gambling, then?" Crowley was fishing for a bite.

Castiel evaded the hook, so to speak. "No. However my knowledge of the game easily allowed me to rely more on a fortunate draw than strategies."

"Putting matters up for luck? Not really my style."

"Most men won't admit that gambling is just playing with chances. I suppose accepting that makes it easier for me to win."

"That and the ability to turn your face into a rock." Crowley grunted. "Well enough blathering – let's get on with it, shall we? I'd like to make this quick."

Dean urged to wrap his hand around the security of a gun, but knew that Crowley would be the first to know why his hand went to a pocket. "Sure, quick is good," he agreed.

Crowley, perhaps noticing Dean's defiant tone, said, "You still miss your brother, don't you?"

Dean stiffened; trigger hand twitching. "What did you do to Sam?"

"Why would you assume I did anything? He's still living it up out West, right? I just wanted to make sure you were still interested in the second part of Lucifer's deal – you know, the one where you get to make a full retirement from a life of crime without getting a bullet in your head?"

Dean's apprehension ebbed. "Really? I can leave?"

"Don't get excited, your debt to me isn't paid just yet."

"Then why bother with the courtesy call?"

"Because before I can ship you out, you have to do something very, very important for me."

"What is it?" Crowley heavily appraised Castiel and Dean both, as if the secret he was about to reveal would be a terribly painful burden for them. Dean suddenly realized that Crowley didn't have any body guards with him – whatever was going on was extremely covert; his stomach clenched in knots.

"I need you to kill Lucifer." Crowley said, and everything around Dean seemed to topple from the bottom-up.

It took every ounce of resolve he had to just keep looking as he was instead of how he felt; he was dimly aware that the muscles in his legs quivered, if only for a spare moment, just enough to send tremors only he could feel. He had probably gone pale, too. He wiped at his mouth, buying time before he would have to get at a response.

It wasn't as though sending a hit out on a mafia boss was some rare, unprecedented event; hell, there seemed to be more attempted murders of Lucifer than available jobs in the whole country; but that was the thing, out of the dozens of times Lucifer had dodged a bullet, or a knife, or subtly applied poison in two cases Dean had heard about, no one had ever succeeded. There became the immediate solution that Crowley was giving him a Hosbon's choice: To either die in the city for refusing the assignment, or get blown to kingdom come on his attempt at it. And he certainly wouldn't put it past his boss, but the pieces didn't seem to fit together just right.

"Why?" Dean asked, struggling to get his mouth to work.

"Why?" Crowley parroted.

"Confusion isn't exactly misplaced here, Crowley." Castiel spoke up, and Dean wasn't sure whether to be relieved that he had more time to gain control back over his faculties, or worried that Castiel would stir up more trouble for himself. "As far as I've been able to tell, you were a branch off from Lucifer's; he was a mentor to you, in a way, years ago. And the two groups you run have been coinciding rather smoothly from the start. Why, exactly, are you pining for Lucifer's downfall now? It doesn't seem like someone of your… caliber," he said in a doubting way, biting his lip, "Would waste what you probably think is a perfectly good worker, just to reprimand him for some slight against you or your business." He looked over to Dean, who was feeling a little better now that Castiel had hit the nail on the head, begging answers to Dean's unvoiced questions.

Crowley seemed to consider Castiel's little speech. "Rather intelligent man, aren't you?" Dean's blood ran cold again. "I wasn't aware that you were so well versed in mob relations on top of everything else." Castiel eyed him curiously.

"What are you referring to?"

"A Russian tailor in Brighton Beach with his own humble connections to some illegal networks there – and a convenient shop around a hotspot for your sort and Dean's to meet." He cocked his head. "Could you be a spy, I wonder? Or just an interested third party?" Castiel paused; uneasy.

"I'm not inclined to reveal more of my personal life than what you've managed to dig up," he said finally. Dean, taking a steeling breath and moving into focus, decided to get back to the matter at hand.

"Wouldn't mind a few explanations from your side though," he said.

"Fine." Crowley took a step back, and for a moment Dean readied himself for the man to pull out a gun and fire a round at him. But instead he merely began walking the length of the room in a slow, prowling pace, which wasn't outright as lethal as a bullet, but did nothing to calm Dean's nerves.

"It's true that Lucifer and I are on good footing – that's more my method, I suppose. It's much easier to stab someone if their back is to you." Dean snorted; that certainly sounded like Crowley's personal business motto. "Lucifer is of an admirable sort; off-the-boat parents, a rebel turned king – his climb up the ethically impaired ladder is admirable certainly," he stopped in his tracks and shrugged in a nonchalant fashion; "But we're living in a time of progress, my friends – and doing an admirable job just doesn't cut it anymore, I'm afraid." He went back to moving, hands behind his back. He was by the kitchen counter and he disinterestedly glanced at the cover of one of Castiel's novels sitting there. "You _have_ noticed some increase in those little start-up gangs around here, I hope?"

"Hard to miss," Dean grunted. "Desperate times and all that; so what, though?"

Crowley turned back around, looking animated for the first time. "Lucifer isn't doing a damned thing about quality control – that's what!" He cooled immediately, lowering his voice back to a polite volume. "Lucifer is more than content to just sit back and relax. No maintenance, no proper regulations, and he doesn't even mind when some homeless kids start holding their little gambling rings in his part of the city. It's not professional, and the only thing that separates what we do, with what common criminals do, is professionalism."

"Sure," Dean went. "That's the only thing."

"I never planned for things to get this bad – when I first started out there was some order – some rhyme and reason going on in this city. I never planned to let Lucifer live this long."

"So you're saying that you want him bumped off because he's not keeping up with the housecleaning?" Dean asked.

"That's one of the reasons. Truly it's because as fun as it is to have allies; I'd rather just play on my own."

"What about the other guys in the city? The families, gangs?"

"Once Lucifer is taken down most of his little followers will scramble, and half of the borough will answer to me. Any other expansion will have other plans and, frankly, will happen when you're long, long, gone." Crowley had the strongest hold in the southern strips of Brooklyn, where Russian mobs didn't dominate, and Lucifer had the reins of the eastern, bay side communities. There were other rivalries brewing and killing each other all over the rest of the city, but if Crowley ever did get into a position to take over that much territory that quickly, he would easily become one of most powerful leaders on the east coast.

"And you're depending on me to do that for you."

Crowley stood still again. "Oh, don't tell me that you wanted poor Lucifer to live a long, happy life, did you? I'm sure you've imagined snapping his neck plenty of times over. You've probably imagined doing that to me, but that doesn't get you a train ticket out of here."

Dean pursed his lips, eyes darting slightly as he thought in rapid-fire increments. "And when do you want me to take this hit out?"

"That's a to be announced date, I'm afraid." Crowley offered nonchalantly, as if he had to work out Lucifer's assassination between lunch meetings. "Within the next handful of months; you're the planned gunman, but I still have a few other pawns that need to get set up. I just thought, performance jitters and all that, you might want some time to prepare."

"Why, do you have any other dons you want dead?"

"Oh, certainly. But Lucifer's head is only enough for one ride. So if you were interested in taking say, this gentleman of yours," He gestured to Castiel and his mouth curled up. "Then I might need you to work overtime a bit."

"What?" Dean cast a flurried glance between the other men in the room.

"Oh, my mistake, I just thought – well it's probably been, what, a year for the pair of you? From what I heard Dean was never fond of having the same bedmate for more than a couple hours." His attention fell back on Castiel, who had adopted a rather insensitive, deadened look. "But this one has so much personality! I can see the attraction." He reached into his breast pocket for a slip of paper, and held it out for Castiel to see, addressing him now instead of Dean. "You do appear to have a working brainstem, however. Perhaps if lover-boy doesn't want to pay your way, you'd be willing to, hm?" Castiel hesitantly took the calling card from Crowley's grasp; it had a series of numbers for presumably his phone lines, and what looked to be an address up in Dyker Heights. Crowley stepped away from the pair and brushed down the hide of his suit, as if Dean or Castiel had contaminated it.

"Any other enlightening questions?" Crowley said.

"Yeah. Why me?" Dean asked.

Crowley feigned a look of sympathy. "Oh Dean, it just had to be you." he said, as if that explained anything at all. "I'll keep in touch," he continued, already turning around. Crowley shut the door behind him, footsteps echoing a moment longer until neither Dean nor Castiel heard anything at all.

The moment Crowley had gone Dean snatched the calling card from Castiel's hands and threw it away. Castiel watched it flutter down and land in the trash bin near the table. Finally able to breathe freely, Dean couldn't force himself to calm down, especially about this.

"Don't." Dean warned, catching the focused look on Crowley's calling card.

"What?"

"I could tell what you were thinking, and I'm telling you, _don't_."

"But –"

"You were thinking that you could work for him." Dean grabbed Castiel hard by the shoulders. He was unforgiving, in his grip, in his tone, and he knew that from the way Castiel, so intense himself most of the time, seemed frozen in a form of shock, and flinched at the hold. "Listen to me Cas," he said. "Don't get involved. With Crowley. With Lucifer – with anyone. You're not a part of this. You didn't drag yourself to America to get shot in the back by some gang for my sake."

"I can help you," he offered as a weak protest. "He said that –"

"For_get_ what he said – listen to what I'm saying right now," He shook Castiel lightly. "It's not worth it. Getting me and Sam into this kind of stint was the worst choice I could've made, alright? And if you can't stand the blood on your hands already then why in the hell would you want to go through it again?" He let Castiel go, watched him stumble backwards dumbly like he couldn't feel his legs. "Give me one damn good reason why you want more things like that to regret."

Castiel blinked, steadying himself against the end of the bed. "You." he muttered, and that silenced Dean in an instant.

He had already opened his mouth a bit to offer a rebuttal, before Castiel had just recanted with a word. One word. That one; which was somehow more potent than any threat or love confession or anything else he could hear. "_You."_

"No," it hissed out from between Dean's teeth before he even knew he was thinking it. "You can't. Cas, you _can't_."

Castiel clasped his hands together gently, staring at them instead of Dean's face. "I… assumed that, when your brother and his wife left the state, you would end up following them at one point or another. We never talked about it." His voice was dark and haunted; did Castiel think of these things late at night? When he mentioned his brother, would Castiel drift off and wonder if Dean had kept something like this from him? "But I have to ask you; if you were going, leaving New York forever…" he glanced up, "Would you tell me?"

Dean wanted to insist that they weren't talking about _that_, but Castiel was relentless – the expression, the way he spoke his words carefully, as if he had just started to get a grasp of English. It was frighteningly open and might have penned him for weak if Dean didn't know any better.

He already knew that was a question he would answer, and arguing that Castiel just shut up a damn minute and listen to him instead could prolong the inevitable; but Dean was done trying to hold his own against another person's thoughts, so he collected himself enough to say, "In the beginning, no."

Castiel's stance withered slightly.

"After that party, perhaps – or a letter sent after the fact. Now…" it was hard to put into eloquent speech what he meant, and it left Dean staring at the back wall of the apartment in concentration. "Why do you want to know?" he asked distractedly.

"I just want to be sure of something." Was the vague answer he received.

"I'm not going to spend the rest of my life apart from my brother but, god, a part of me just wants to stay here with you." Castiel silently prompted Dean to continue. "I feel guilty about it sometimes. I didn't think ever that'd I get this deep in with anybody – especially somebody like you. Things like us," he gestured between the two of them. "We're not supposed to happen, and maybe I ought to regret it, but I can't. And… and you're right, I never talked about this with you, but to be honest I never thought about this period. I thought about Sam and California, I didn't want to think about the work it'd take to get there.

"If I try to work it out in my head, all I see is the both of us on separate sides of the country and I get torn up, and…" he looked away another time. "I know it's selfish but I wish you could come with me. But even I know that's asking for too much." He swore he heard Castiel swallow, and from the corner of his eye he saw him biting his lip.

Castiel's voice had a teetering edge to it like he couldn't lean one way or another in his feelings. "What about my sister? And Gabriel, and… and Balthazar?"

"I doubt any of you would want to uproot ten year's worth of your lives and come west for my sake," he said evenly. "But I would bring 'em out too. I'd round up the whole neighborhood if that was an option." Dean felt a corner of his mouth twist up; he could practically hear waves, off in the distance. "You could give your business to movie stars and all the rich clients Sam had, and it'd be hot and bright all year 'round. I could take a trade class and get a real job, and it'd be like a retirement and… we wouldn't have to worry about the things we do here." Dean crossed his arms. "It'd be different, I think – as dumb as that sounds, of course."

"More and more people are moving west every year," Castiel said, slowly. "It wouldn't be too strange, I don't think. In the grand scheme of things."

"Well you can't just up and disappear," Dean said, but Castiel had this look on his face that implied that he _could_ – that he even _wanted_ to, and Dean felt a rush, a heartbeat, floundering in the back of his head. "You said yourself that this is your home."

"Sometimes home's more of a person, than a place," Castiel offered. Dean felt his breath hitch. "Of course, it's more Okies and people from the far East migrating now, so it might be a little singular to have Russians around. But Venice isn't too far from Hollywood and all the eccentricities there."

Dean felt a stuttering laugh bubble up in his throat. "What, think you can audition for a few pictures?" Quickly his thoughts sobered again. "You can't mean that you want to leave with me,"

Castiel slowly approached him, and didn't stop until he was practically on top of Dean in terms of personal space. Dean stayed rooted to the spot, trapped by the look Castiel was giving him. "You would be miserable without me, at this point, you said. Don't you think I'd feel the same way? I don't know how but… Anna and Gabriel do like you, and as attached we are here, I couldn't leave without them, either. If I could convince them,"

"And Balthazar?"

"It's good luck we have a few months to win him over," Castiel said. "I'm saying this as if it could happen," he continued, a touch of humor sparking his words.

Something big seemed to appear between them at that very moment. It terrified him; grabbed him and Castiel tight and seized the pair with grandiose dreams and ideas that they weren't supposed to have if either one of them could talk sense into the other. This was a dream; a helpless piece of imagery, but god did he want it. Castiel's eyes had that glow to them again, as if they were already where they wanted to be. He couldn't leave Castiel – he would live and get on just fine with the rest of the family in California, but somehow everything he wanted lost its splendor if he knew that Castiel wouldn't be there to see it with him. And already he heard Balthazar's warnings of abandonment ringing in his head, and his own flurried promise, and if he had any other logical reservations about this dangerous plan they were creating, he was already drowning them out.

"If you want it to, we can make it happen," he swore, jaw tight, throat and chest clutched up inside him like he had swallowed the sun. "That's five, six heads to count for," Dean said. "It might take some time, but I can do it."

"You don't have to do it alone," Castiel suggested, but Dean just shook his head; they had come full circle now, and Dean didn't like Castiel's method of thought any more than the first time he heard it. With a sigh he walked over to the armchair and practically collapsed into the material. The other man walked over, peering down at him.

"You want to help me?" Castiel nodded like he was following an order. "Then just – just try to get everyone else on board with this thing, okay? And I know you hate them somethin' awful but start taking one of my pistols when you go out someplace, because from here on I can't say exactly what Crowley might throw out way." He reached out and touched Castiel's shoulder, and without pause Castiel kneeled down by the front of the chair, so Dean could hover over him instead. "I know I'm an ass sometimes, and downright demanding; I know you want to help, I can't blame you." He held the sides of Castiel's head, not in a punishing grip, but merely to frame his face and look at him. "But I can't live without you, and I can't live you dead. So – no matter how tough you think you are, this business will rip you apart if you start now from where I am. So, please, _please_, Cas, whatever you do, whatever happens, do not go to Crowley." Dean took a deep breath. "Okay?"

Castiel's irises flickered to slight points across Dean's face, deep thoughts crossing his mind as he looked at Dean's skin.

"Alright," Castiel said finally. Beneath his fingers, Dean could feel him nod his head slightly. "I promise I'll stay out of it like that – I don't want you hurt but, I don't want to hurt you – I will never do anything like that to hurt you, Dean," he said solemnly; the weight of the words made something in the back of Dean's eyes prickle and sting for a moment, and once that passed he dragged Castiel close to him, leaning against his shoulder and holding as tight as he could, as if to confirm he had reality under his fingertips. Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean's waist, straightening up a bit for more leverage.

He trusted Castiel; with every ounce of his person, he believed that Castiel really wouldn't do a thing to hurt anybody, not even him.

And, he figured, feeling the warmth of Castiel's body seep through his clothes like a comfort, if they could come out of this thing alive, get through Crowley's list of jobs, if Dean could actually put a hole through Lucifer's head – he could go the rest of his life without hurting anyone else, either.

_If only if only_, he thought with a sigh, feeling Castiel's lips on his neck.

**xxxx**

**A/N: As the author, I can say with the utmost certainty that from this point on, Things Will Be Happening. Which, if you know Supernatural at all, really just means Bad Stuff Gets Worse, Good Things Are Ruined Forever, and People Will Die. (All the fun is guessing how serious the above comment of mine actually is.) More importantly, a few notes: The 'Mother Road' Gabriel refers to is another name for Route 66, which was constructed in 1926 and goes from Chicago to California. The word Crowley uses to address Castiel is '**_**Mudak'**_**; which is a racial slur to refer to Russians. It doesn't have a complete translation in English, but it combines the use of insulting someone's intelligence and comparing them to genitals – sometimes pig genitals, depending on which version you're looking at, and is considered extremely explicit and offensive, enough to get you killed if you said it in the wrong place in front of the wrong people. Naturally, Dean already knew what it meant. And 'Okies' is another, less-offensive slur to refer to people from the mid-west, usually farmers from, say, Oklahoma, that travelled west once the Depression hit, and in greater numbers after severe drought created the Dust Bowl and ruined crops. As a final notice, you will start to see Dean's job in more of a first-hand encounter. So, just as a forewarning, in case some people are sensitive to violence that mob members have to dish out.**


	19. The Fear of Blood

All of the feeble warmth radiating from the sun was sucked away as soon as Dean stepped over the threshold and onto the factory floor. Spring in the late afternoon was replaced by dank undertones that were even worse than the putrid mix of early flowers; in a passing thought he wished he wasn't so used to settings like this, but the notion left as quickly as the temperature dropped.

This place had once been a brass mill, before the market crash forced the business to close up and move north into Connecticut's industrial sections. Another company had moved in, but only used half of the space. As Dean walked the floor, past spare pieces of abandoned machinery, buckets full of metal shavings and black oil, he could still hear the bombinating echoes of other hardware running on the other side of the building.

The only hint that the area wasn't as abandoned as it should have been was the man who was walking steadily, surreptitiously behind him.

David Ludensky – that was his name – was the equivalent of an intern, a slightly familiar face. He had come by his apartment an hour ago, not long after he had gotten home from work. Ludensky had explained that Crowley had something for him, and now they were here, in East Flatbush. As they got closer to the most foreboding area of the factory, Dean could just begin to smell dried blood, oxidizing on the floor like rust.

Old buildings had their charm for smuggling operations and meeting spots. Some were so good people got killed over them. But this place was special.

You could, for example, beat a guy to death in here, and with the other part of the mill going, no one would hear them screaming.

"Can't get shit outta the guy," Angelo Moreno said, stepping out of a cleared out office room – it was just a three-walled alcove, with a long plastic sheet acting as the ceiling and fourth wall. Angelo was older than Ludensky or Dean – older than Castiel, too. His nose was flat like it had been broken in one too many times, and his expression was perpetually angry, no matter where he was or what he did.

"That's 'cause they won't let the damn kid talk," Dean said, already drinking up the bloodlust this project demanded. "Get 'em outta there." Angelo glared at Dean for a moment before turning his head, cheeks darkening as he barked a few rough commands in the native tongue.

Dean could hear a muted, wet sound, harbored pants, and it didn't take a genius to figure out someone had gotten punched in the mouth. Two men revealed themselves a moment later; both were a little older, a little rounder, and a little shorter – with dark hair and venomous eyes.

"Get yourselves cleaned up," Angelo ordered, eyeballing their sweat-streaked faces and bloodied hands with the same amount of disgust he had given to Dean. "Winchester's on." The two of them laughed and clapped him on the shoulder affectionately as they passed. Ludensky, on the other hand, got a patronizing '_Good luck!_' in rough voices. One of them put something into his palm before going away, perhaps to scope the perimeter for curious workers on their cigarette break.

Ludensky was a messenger, simply put. He would round up Crowley's men and send correspondence when phone calls weren't an option, letters were too slow, and telegrams not personal enough. He hadn't been on the receiving end of a 'kill the messenger' attack or a variation of it – as far as Dean could tell, at least; his fingers and teeth were still there, even if he was twitchy and everything from his eyes to his hair were murky colored, washed out, and pale. Sometimes that was all that was needed to get marked as inexperienced, and that quickly sent you down with the dogs at the bottom of the family food chain. He was also Polish, if Dean placed the accent right. Even if Crowley hired from wherever, it didn't mean Crowley's men had the same picture of unity.

"I'm coming with you?" Ludensky asked quietly, growing even more ashen when Dean gestured for him.

"You don't have to hurt him**, **just fact-check for me when he starts answering questions in case I need it. Otherwise, stand by me and look like you'll a threat." Ludensky hesitated, so Dean brought out his arm, as if to wrap it around his shoulders in a friendly manner. "Stare at the wall behind his head; ignore him if he starts talkin' to you. Got it?" His tone was low so the kid in the office wouldn't hear them, but David might have mistaken that for kindness. At any rate, it got him heading into the office, Dean right behind him.

The guy in question was James Mondale. Some musician – too crummy to make it on the Tin-Pan Alley – who had to settle for some street corners farther south, in Manhattan. He hadn't done anything important, but he was reportedly _with_ someone important – and that was good enough to get rounded up at dawn and dropped off here.

Dean didn't know how long, exactly, James had been tied to that chair in the frigid factory. He didn't know how long the Johnson Brothers had been working him over, either. His hair was thin and stringy; the shirt he was wearing had splotches of blood and more than a few tears in the material – even Castiel couldn't fix something like that. His eyes were squinting up at Dean, like he might have worn glasses and someone had snatched them away. His gaze then sluggishly looked over at Ludensky, who seemed more uncomfortable in the room than James did, even if he was the one strapped to a chair with bump on his forehead the size of a golf ball. Dean walked over to him, gingerly laid a hand on the top of his head and tilted his skull so that he was making eye contact with him.

"Know English, kid?" he asked gruffly. James tried to nod, realized Dean wasn't giving him the room to, and assented, betraying the truth in a layered tone. "Know your numbers?" Another strained 'yes' in response. "Okay- count to five so I know your brain's not crushed in."

James rattled off the numbers quickly; afraid Dean was going to ruin his face if he hesitated.

"Alright, good job." He nodded to himself more than to James. There was a metal chair in the corner of the room, and Dean dragged it forward with a grating screech, making both Mondale and Ludensky wince. He sat down in it, casually, about a foot from Mondale's form, as if they were two friends having a conversation. It also made it easy for Dean to move and hit him, if he needed to, the danger of that was important. "So Mondale – or, sorry, can I call you James? It's easier to remember James," Dean waited a few seconds before the other man murmured yet another 'yes'; unsure if Dean was asking or making a rhetorical request. "James, do you know why you're here?" He made it sound like he was curious, and James watched him skeptically for another few seconds until Dean's hand twitched against where it rested on his knee, and he blurted out:

"Ruby. They tell me it's 'cause I know Ruby," Dean smiled, bowed his head. At least this job was going to be easy.

There were two ways to interrogate – at least two that Dean used. You could beat the answers out of a person; get a pipe and go to town, only give them respite once they started to promise information. That's what the other guys had done to Mondale, and, to their credit, it usually worked.

Other times you needed a different approach. In fact, that's probably why he had been sent for.

James had been here 'all day', from what Ludensky told him. That meant that despite his abysmal career choice and lack of intellect, he wasn't so easy to crack. Isolation didn't get to him, not even a few rounds with fists and a chiv. There was something about him that ran deeper than physical stuff; you saw that in guys once in a while, even if they appeared like a stiff breeze would blow them over. When that happened you had to go for their mind.

"Ah, Ruby," Dean worked hard to keep a fond-looking smile on his face, even if he felt like he was walking on a volcano, anger ready to burst through at the chick's name. He had known about Ruby as quickly as he had known about Lucifer – it made sense, rumors had it they were in cahoots somehow, even if no one could prove it. Dean didn't need a shred of evidence against her, though. The second he had laid eyes on her he knew she was bad news.

"I used to work with her, you know." Now James appeared interested, and Dean kept on smiling, polite and calm and sane. He could feel Ludensky look at him, probably wondering if he had jumped off the deep end since stepping into the room. He looked tranquil, a bit humble, too, for effect; even James wasn't sure what to make of it.

Dean leaned back in his seat as if he was telling a story. "I've hopped around a bit, circle to circle. We've talked. Met at a party three, four years ago; I haven't seen much of her lately, but we were more acquaintances than anything." He tilted his head, again. "What? You look like you're thinking about something."

James opened and closed his mouth a few times. "C'mon, you can tell me." Dean prodded.

Finally the man said: "You knew her, really?" Dean shook his head to the affirmative.

"Brunette, longish hair, usually parts it in the middle – and one of the smartest, silver-tongued broads you ever met; right out of a pulp glossie, right?" James did the same baffled movement of opening and closing his mouth. "Just seems too good to be true," That finally got another one-word affirmation, and Dean nodded again, this time a bit more sympathetically.

"You know her a long time?" Dean inquired, politely.

"No, just – just a few months. Durin' the winter she started listening to me play," He almost smiled, before running his tongue over the cut on his bottom lip. "She told me she could get me an act."

"Where?"

"Anywhere – it doesn't matter if you're a mouthful from starving," Dean shrugged a bit so James would continue his spiel. "She said I just had to – had to…" then he stopped short, as if realizing what he had just done.

Still, Dean kept on smiling in that urbane, recourseful way. People who were brought in for answers may be resistant to getting roughed up and bloody, but very few were resistant to that and a little inside manipulation. Sometimes the situation called for a friend, not a fighter, and Dean was more than happy to play both. He'd come in with a look on his face; an open, caring look; he'd let the person speak, answer innocuous questions that didn't matter, perform little tricks that weren't necessary to accomplish the ultimate goal. He'd idly chat as if they weren't in some metal icebox, as if one of them wasn't black and blue and red; usually they got the idea that response was a good thing, meant no more punches, and would oblige him. The talk could go on for minutes, half an hour at most until someone started to lose patience.

If they needed more persuasion, Dean would even light them a cigarette, clean up their wounds, say he was sorry – he was so new to this whole thing, to be honest, he was just doing this for him and his brother; 'Don't be mad at me,' he'd say, eyes furrowed and worried. 'Just – just tell me what you know so they don't send in anyone worse.' It was fun, trying to see how wide he could make his eyes go, how innocent he could seem.

At a point, the victims started to look at Dean like a warped version of their punisher and savior – someone who was to be simultaneously thanked and blamed. It messed with their heads, threw them too much off guard; after a while they would inwardly ask _why_ they wouldn't indulge Dean in the answers to his questions – it only appeared to be making conversation, after all. If he actually got around to threatening or hurting with that sort of group, it would be a shock to their system – a punch to the stomach would hurt like a bullet to the heart, because they thought Dean was a friend, an ally in the mess. They wore down to nothing, eventually – everyone did with that sort of treatment.

Alastair had proven that firsthand on Dean enough times; he'd be lying if he didn't get some thrill on acting out what he had been on the receiving end of for so long.

"Cat got your tongue?" Dean asked simply; "I know, I know, Ruby's a nice girl – you wouldn't want anything to happen to her." James didn't blink. "But you have to understand – she's all grown up; and she's been caught for worse stuff than whatever she's having you do." He eased up out of his chair, cast a look back at Ludensky; he had gone back to staring at the wall, just like Dean instructed, though when he felt Dean's gaze on him he nearly jumped; his left hand clenched, and Dean was reminded of what had been put there, before he turned his attention back towards the restrained man. "She tried to go along with my brother, matter of fact. Didn't really work out – can't say I'm heartbroken,"

He lightly stepped around James's spot on the floor. His hands were at his sides and he moved in a natural stroll; nothing would seem dangerous about his ambling figure at that moment, unless, of course, you were tied to a chair, forced to watch a person slowly come in and out of view, vaguely wondering if you were about to be shot in the back of the head. "Especially when I found out going in for the long-haul is kind of her thing."

"You're lying!" James hissed out; Dean stalled a moment, but continued his prowl.

"I promise I'm not. What point would it be to lie about my brother?"

"She wouldn't do that to me – she loves me!"

"You're a musician, kid – girls like you on principle. Love's a different thing. Doesn't happen in a season, no matter what the poets tell you," He let out a long, tired sounding sigh, even if his blood was buzzing under his veins with adrenaline. "You seem like a nice guy, James, I'll give you that. Patron of the arts – I like reading myself, though admittedly if I'm going somewhere with music it's more like a club than an opera."

He put a gentle hand on Mondale's shoulder. "So, let's insinuate this – Ruby is taken with you like you are with her, and she may or may not be doing a very bad thing; we're not keen on killing her, to be honest I'm surprised if anyone wants to touch a hair on her head – we just want to know if a theory we have is right."

"What sort of theory is that?" James bit out.

"You tell me; what'd she tell you to do?"

Another long, long pause stretched on. "If she loves you she should forgive you for your slights," Dean offered, wondering how long they had been there in the room. James was probably getting stupid from hunger, sometimes his head lolled slightly when he hadn't done anything for a while. "And it's hard to stay mad at a guy in the hospital."

"What?"

"You've been beat to hell, James – you didn't think I would take care of it for you?"

"Those other –"

"–Forget about the other guys; they're low class schmucks. I wouldn't have done this to you. I haven't done anything to you yet." This time Mondale's hesitation was more considering, like that brief moment of lucidity that had been wrought by Dean insulting Ruby had been snatched away from him, and he was back to asking why, exactly, he shouldn't just do what Dean was so nicely asking.

"And… and you won't hurt her?" Dean smiled again; this time the expression was different – predatory with too much teeth, though the only one who could see it was Ludensky, who immediately attempted to look somewhere else. Dean eased the look on his face again and slowly slid back into his seat.

"'Course I won't hurt her – no one would hurt her. We're all not interested in taking hits out on people – sometimes we're helpers, too. Ruby knows about us – gang life is like breathing to her, trust me. She'll understand you did what you had to do; I'm sure she's in the same boat; doing what's necessary."

"Think so?"

"Swear on my grave – she's craftier than I am. Even if you did end up in a hard spot, she'd be able to get the pair of you out of it in a minute." James stared at his feet for a few more moments, and Dean let him mull it over – not long enough for him to come up with an iron-clad lie, of course, but enough to make it seem that he was being considerate. "Got that answer, James?"

Mondale looked up at him, dark eyes trying to search his; the beguiled look was on thick, and not a second later the guy had finally, willing cracked – he seemed happy about it even, as he started to tell Dean about the notes Ruby would put in his violin case every morning – insignificant pieces of paper that had 'strings of numbers' – or, as Dean gently persisted, addresses to meet-ups Crowley had going on. People would come by and pick them up – bulls, undercover cops, and Crowley's men got arrested or scattered. In exchange, there was more business for whoever Ruby was working for – probably Lucifer, though again the evidence was based on rumors and his own intuition. "So I got a little extra money from it – she said she was just weeding out some troublemakers, I didn't figure it was like… like this," James surmised.

"To be fair, she's done a better job cleaning the streets than the suits are, these days." James looked like he would've smiled, if his lip wasn't open and sore. "I'm sure you two will have a lot to talk about, though, huh."

"I… I guess so, yeah."

"Do you know where she is now?" James looked thoughtful for a moment before shaking his head. "You sure?" Dean pressed.

"She says she has a sister she goes to, all I know is that it's on the East strip of the bay."

"She mention the sister's name?"

"Uh, M-something. Margaret? Mary?"

"Meg?" Dean guessed.

"Sounds right, couldn't say. She never talked about her personal life much,"

"Understandable." He moved the chair back towards the wall with the same horrid whine, before reaching into one of the pockets inside his jacket and taking out a small knife. James looked worried again.

"What are you doing with that?"

"Cutting you loose, of course." Dean said simply. He turned his head towards Ludensky, silently requesting his attention. "Don't have to ask you not to try anything funny, right?" he said, slicing through the rope around the man's ankles, then the ones that had bound his wrists together behind the chair, now rubbed red and raw. Dean stepped back, holding his knife like he was just about to attack James if needed, but the man just massaged at his leg and groaned at the renewed pain in his extremities. "Can you walk?" Dean asked; he looked behind James towards the room's sham of a doorway, and saw Angelo staring at the three of them, as unimpressed as ever. He pointed to the oblivious, beaten man, mouthed the word '_hospital'_ at him, and Angelo slid out of view again, probably rounding up a driver and someone to keep James complacent in the backseat – they would give him a story, or punch him till he could think of one himself, but it wasn't Dean's problem. The second he walked out of the makeshift-office his part was done, and he was that much closer to paying his debt to Crowley.

After a few shaky steps on Mondale's part, one of his torturers from before stepped into the room. James scarcely let a word of surprise out before he was being dragged in jagged motions, fast enough that he nearly crumpled to his feet with each step. Dean watched on emotionlessly, there was no use in pretending to care about the kid, now.

"Wait!" James gasped out, sending a flurried look over his shoulder where Dean – his _friend_ – was, though all Dean bothered to offer him was a twisted, cruel smile that parodied the one he had been making, passively watching the man be dragged out of sight without lifting a hand to help. The burly man holding him kicked his ankles every few steps or so, like he wanted to do the most damage with one move.

"See? Wasn't too bad," Dean said, rolling his gaze over to Ludensky, once the other men were gone. They went out of the bare room, onto the open area of the factory. They were alone again, and the scent of blood had been refreshed, like a new coat of paint.

"Think he'll make it to the hospital?" Ludensky asked anxiously.

"Who knows? Oh, by the way," He walked towards a side exit on the opposite side of where he had come in. "What'd those guys give you, anyway?"

Ludensky opened his sweating palms to reveal four gold rings, polished to a gentle glow, like they had been used and cleaned with care many times. They all had blocky, square faces, and two of the rings had small raised designs like a pyramid.

"Huh," Dean muttered, putting them on a card table with a well-used ashtray on it; someone would return to find the rings there. "Wondered why his face looked like that."

**xxxx**

Factories were death traps – Dean knew that by now. He walked out into the sunlight, blinking hard, catching a tinted car driving down the road at a ridiculous speed. He longed for some blinders to keep the sun out of his eyes, some object to prevent reality crashing back into him full throttle.

Sam had always been too good of heart to be in this sort of schtick, but he was hanging on by the ends of his teeth and toes.

He started walking, wanting some time to numb his brain – there was always a moment of panic, of asking existential questions that bogged him down and kept him alert, but in a few miles it would be put away, and he would forget the whole thing. Until next time, at least.

It was easy to ignore the things that he did – the fact that he killed and cheated and stole for a living, but because he got money through a pyramid scheme it was better than going solo. He hated moments of clarity like this, but he needed the catharsis.

There had been a time, some months early on, where he had tried to get rid of the shock to his system by burying himself in it. He had always blamed Alastair for it; for edging him closer and closer to the deep end, but really, he had already figured that if he didn't have it in him, he couldn't have gotten that low. If it wasn't self-loathing and disgust holding him back, there would be a slippery slope waiting for him – and then what? When he had gotten too invested in the business, Sam reeled him back in, made him see what sort of monster he was turning into. Seeing that tore into him for the first time since their Father's death. And by then they were working under Lucifer, where things were more systematic, easier.

Usually he didn't have to break people open like that, anymore – at least not people who didn't somehow deserve it. Dean silently warred with the ideas forming and swirling around in his head, arms akimbo and stuffed in his pockets, like people would see the blood on his hands otherwise.

When he saw the modest apartment building come into view, he felt a small wave of relief string through him. By now, Dean had a routine that dealt with the fallout – the aftermath of a high profile job. He got into the apartment, locked the door shut, and took off his shoes and coat – material sliding off his shoulders and hastily hung up on the rack. Then he washed his hands; he always washed his hands, even if he hadn't touched anything, the smell would linger there and drive him crazy. Already he was irked by it, through the entire walk home. Looking at his fingers now he could see that James had gotten some dried, dark smudges on his skin from when he held his scalp, and those rubbed off like old scabs. He kept his hands under the faucet for another minute, until his skin turned pink and he felt clean again.

It was worse with murders, but the way James looked at him as he was being dragged out made him accountable; not guilty enough to help him, of course, he never felt that bad; but after the adrenaline eroded and everyone else had gone, he wasn't left with much else but reflections, no original thought to be had, a deadness in the center of him.

As an afterthought, he bent over the faucet and splashed scalding water on his face. He blindly reached for a towel, sighing into the starched cotton. A moment later he lifted his head to stare at his reflection in the mirror.

Castiel was behind him, watching.

"Jesus!" His arms flew out to their sides and he spun around. "Don't _do_ that."

Castiel swallowed, tossed his head to the side. "Sorry. I wondered why you didn't say anything when you came in."

"Oh," Dean wiped at his hands, distractedly putting the towel on the edge of the sink. "I – I didn't see you. I get pretty one track after a," he let out another sigh, "after a job." Castiel continued to stare inquiringly. "I had to play question and answers with some kid who's familiar with one of Lucifer's rats. Well, a possible rat – nobody has dirt on her. Some other guys had already come by and loosened him up for a bit." He walked out of the bathroom, Castiel following.

"So you didn't hurt him?"

"Not physically, no. You don't always have to. One of those skills you pick up on."

"Lucifer taught you that?" Dean snorted, making his way over to the table. There was a stack of letters from Sam, and he suddenly felt a jolt, a new sense of abandonment that he hadn't experienced to such an extent in months.

"No, Alastair. Practiced it on me enough times."

Castiel thinned his lips, perhaps unsure where to turn the conversation. Dean felt soiled again; James was a nobody, but the last time he had felt this guilty for a job was Doctor Romano last year.

Castiel, of course, was familiar with the sort of things he got up to, and could handle the news – he knew Dean had worked for Alastair, first; knew that he wanted nothing more than to slaughter the bastard.

"Why would a don want to ruin his own workers?" Castiel quietly asked beside him.

"Alastair was never a don, not even at the height of his power; he was insane, he was _crazy_." Dean clasped his hands together and he still felt blood under his fingernails. "He thought I was like him," Castiel wordlessly put a hand on his shoulder.

"You're not." Castiel supplied blankly. To him it was a fact; he was better than a washed-up torturer that still haunted his restless nights.

Sometimes he didn't feel better than that, though. He had a feeling that _he_ would be keeping James up for a long, long time. Dean sank sluggishly into one of the chairs; after being worked up for so long, it was getting high and crashing, in a way. He felt tired, but merely rested his head in his hand, letting Castiel act as a reassuring, good presence next to him.

After a few more moments Castiel went back to where he had probably been sitting before, at the end of the table. Dean cracked an eye open and noticed that some playing cards were scattered across part of the desk.

"Where'd those come from?" he asked.

"Balthazar gave me a pack the other day," Dean was too muddled to even register the name with anything malicious, his eyes slipped closed. "I was playing."

"I didn't know you played cards for fun."

"Doesn't everyone, from time to time? You can only read for so long."

"You can read for ages," Dean muttered.

He heard the tight crush of cards being shuffled and collected together; it was familiar, the crisp and clean way thick paper flicked against each other. Comforting, perhaps. "Well, you don't get good at something without practice."

"I thought you wouldn't want to play poker after that mess with Crowley last year."

"Has it been nearly a year? I've forgotten," Castiel said evenly, still turning the cards over again. It took a moment before Dean realized the other was being sarcastic. "But I'm not playing poker," Dean opened his eyes again.

"Doesn't look like you're playing anything."

Castiel was flipping the cards over fairly quickly, one after another, only pausing for a second to peer at whatever the value was, before setting them face down on a steadily growing second pile. "I'm not – not at the moment," he said, after nearly all the unseen cards were spent. He stared at the second to last card in his hand before putting it face-down on the haphazard pile. "Want to see a trick?"

"Sure," Dean said, easing up a bit. He leaned forward in his seat while Castiel picked up the last remaining card, holding the face up to Dean instead of himself.

"Is this a two?"

"Sorry, an ace." Castiel frowned, flipped the card over, only to see that Dean had been lying. "It was a joke," he said in defense when Castiel flicked the card – the red two of diamonds – at his head. He chuckled a little and plucked the tag from where it had landed on the table. "Impressive. I didn't know you count cards."

"I don't. I'm not a terrible player, so I usually don't have to. It's a challenge to keep all the values straight in your head, but I have sometimes half a chance of being on the nose."

"So you were born with it?" Castiel shrugged.

"I'm a fast counter – arithmetic was easy, fractions are like chance – learning the game itself is the hardest for me." He tapped his fingers on the messy stack and already Dean felt worlds better than when he had walked through the door. "Can you count cards?"

"Sure, if no one's talking to me and there's only half a deck to work with." He reached for the cards and collected them together, jumbling them through. "When it's for work there are usually a couple of spotters planted that help keep a count, an ace up their sleeves or something. Cheating's hardly a one-man operation,"

Castiel smiled a little, before switching to a considering look. "Do you think Crowley would let you go if you made enough money gambling?"

Dean snorted. "Get me a casino and ten grand to play with and I'll see what I can do – the way I'm going is a lot simpler, anyway."

"Dealing with people?"

"A person or two is a lot easier to waste than a whole bag of chips." He split the deck and folded them in together.

"Is it easier for you?" Dean hesitated. Castiel's concern was warranted, comforting, too. It was something of a relief to know that Castiel could bear to hear what Dean got up to – if not in a newspaper than from his own mouth. But it was still untrodden ground, mentioning how he dealt with it all. When he and Castiel got together he hadn't done any heavy-handed stuff and there wasn't reason to bring it up.

"No," he said simply. "But when has life been easy? For either of us?" Castiel continued to stare at him. "Hey," Dean held his gaze. "I promise you that when all of this is over, we won't have to worry about this – it'll be different. Better, okay?"

Castiel looked down at his hands. "Yeah," he said. "Okay."

Dean put the cards in the middle of the table. "Want to play with me?"

Castiel stopped looking quite so morose, and leaned back in his chair, relaxed. "Sure,"

"Name your game,"

"Twenty-one. You can be the dealer."

Dean smiled. "I haven't played blackjack in ages." In fact, he hadn't played a simple, for-fun game in a while. "I used to play it with Sam a lot, actually. We always played cards when we got bored." He slid Castiel the top card – two of clubs, then his own card, face-down. Castiel's second card was a Queen, and he put a five on top of his hidden card. "Even when we were kids – I remember the two of us making up a few games. Hit or stay?"

"Hit," Dean put down a three of clubs. "Hit," Castiel said again. Dean placed an Ace on the line of cards next. "Were they fun?" he asked, looking up at Dean again, instead of his hand.

"I'm sure they didn't actually make sense. If I recall right I made some game rules where the oldest brother wins automatically," Castiel smirked, then scratched his fingers against the table, the gesture prompting Dean to put down a fifth card, two of clubs. "Getting a lot of low-rollers,"

"You probably just didn't shuffle them right," Castiel said, still smiling. He laid his fingers on the Ace.

"Thought you weren't allowed to touch the cards in a game," Dean supplied. "Hit or stay?"

"Stay," Dean flipped over the unknown card, revealing a King of Diamonds. "Fifteen to eighteen. Congratulations." He slid all the cards away with a quick motion of his hand and started another round, giving Castiel a five and six, while a King was put on top of his pair.

"What was Sam's last letter about?"

"Jess – he's so in love, it's worse than those sonnets you had me read you,"

"I thought they were sweet."

"I thought I was going to throw up – on both counts," he folded his arms across his chest, game forgotten temporarily. "They're not sure what they're going to name the kid yet," he said quietly. "He still doesn't know about Lucifer."

"Well you're going to tell him, right?"

"'Course I am! Just… well there's never really a good time to admit that kind of thing, is there?"

"There's no safe way, either. If the wrong people get hold of your mail – I mean, who says they haven't yet?" Dean worried his lip.

"I had a plan for that, actually."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I – well, I'll get to it soon, I promise," he sighed. "Hit or stay?"

"Hit."

"Really? I could have an Ace in here for all you know," Castiel just shrugged, and got a Jack for his troubles.

"Okay, now I'll stay."

Dean's overturned card was merely a two, and Castiel smiled again, slight and triumphant. It was a lovely look; Dean hadn't seen him straight win something in quite a while, anyway, even the simplicity of friendly competition didn't hinder his appreciation. He swiped the cards again and opened his mouth when a knock resounded at the door.

All he could think of for a moment, before the paranoia settled in was, '_Again?_'

They both stood up; Dean still had a gun hidden away in his pocket, and he reached for it while getting out a gruff, "Who's there?" at the door. Castiel was a silent specter behind him, not sure if their company meant that he should be there or not.

"It's Adam," was the response; Dean had never felt so terrified at the idea of a family member on the other side of a door, trying to get in.

He turned around to look at Castiel. The easy happiness from before had disappeared, and in its place he had a terrified look at the corners of his eyes. Dean had told him about Adam, had also mentioned the suspicion that had arisen from his half-brother finding 'girly' books and a suitcase during their trip to the Catskill Mountains. Adam was family, but he wasn't a friend. Not in this moment, not for Castiel, and he couldn't be seen here.

Adam knocked again, heavy chimes like the tolls on a bell, and Dean stammered out, "Just a minute," over his shoulder, stowing the pistol away and turning back to a desperate Castiel.

The bed was no use; everything was too out in the open. He briefly thought of the wardrobe before getting Castiel by the shoulders, pushing him into the bathroom. "Get in the tub," he whispered, the other quickly went in, sinking down as far as the porcelain depression allowed. "Don't move or make a sound until I say so, got it?" Castiel mutely nodded, slowly pulling the shower curtain around the elevated rod. Dean shut off the washroom's light and shut the door behind him; he could only hope that Adam wouldn't need to clean his hands.

Dean took three steeling breaths before unlocking the door and facing the waiting man.

Dean hadn't been completely cut off from his brother – he still saw him, passed his neighborhood and called up on him when he had the time, but things had gotten stilted between them the longer they spent under different bosses.

Adam looked a little rough around the edges – pale, skinny, like Dean had been when he was a teenager and constantly ravenous. "Kid keeping you up?" Dean said, slapping a last minute smirk on his face.

But Adam didn't seem to register the friendly greeting. Instead he dragged his gaze briefly around the room, then looked at Dean. "Can I come in?" he said. Dean nodded, letting the door shut behind the pair.

"What's wrong? Need a drink or something?"

"No, no, I won't stay long." He rubbed a hand down his cheek. "I had to tell you something."

He figured as much, though it didn't exactly calm him. "It's about Lucifer, right?" Adam got a worried look on his face, like henchmen were about to bust open the door for saying a person's name.

"He's been taking me around more and more, as a bodyguard, I mean. He says I'm a good shooter,"

"Does he still think my guy's after him?"

"Less so, but yes. Crowley hasn't made any moves yet, and it's been more than half a year; but he's still convinced that something big is going to go down." Dean found himself biting the inside of his cheek. "Everyone's been in a frenzy, trying to figure out if some family in Manhattan has something up their sleeve, or if it's Crowley, or Alastair –"

"He couldn't think that Alastair has enough gray cells left in him to do anything?" Adam shrugged helplessly. "So what, he's having all of you spy for him?"

"In simple terms, basically. He hasn't gone off the deep end yet – don't give me that look; really, he hasn't. But I'm with him more and more, and every time someone comes to him, reports some finding or fact or lead… it's crazy, how deep this whole business runs."

"Mafia's the blood veins of New York," Dean dully added, feeling his own pulse run heavily in his ears. He still wasn't sure why Adam had stopped by.

"Lucifer can get any information he wants."

"He can _find_ the people who can get any information he wants."

Adam wiped his mouth. "Yeah," he muttered. "Like you." Dean blinked.

"Like me? Is he trying to hire me back?"

"No – no, but…" Adam stopped abruptly again, like he was trying to speak but had to go over some gargantuan obstacle in his way to force the words out. He was visibly struggling, for a full on minute, before he finally said, "Ms. Milligan got sent into the hospital last week."

"I'm sorry," Dean tried to muster all the authenticity he could at the abrupt comment. Adam's mother wasn't exactly old, but he wasn't sure why this gained notice.

"It's TB, according to the doctors."

"Oh, god, Adam," he put a hand on his shoulder.

"I had enough money to send her down to Florida – they said the warm air would treat her better, but medicine, and a decent place for a thing like that is next to impossible."

"…You had Lucifer give you a loan," Dean said, his tone and touch slipping away in mild horror. Adam nodded, slowly, looking partway ashamed and frightened himself. "How long till you pay it back?"

"He said I didn't have to – not with money, at least. He wanted to be generous." Adam didn't say 'generous' sarcastically, either. His brother was younger, a little naïve, but he seemed to be more anxious about his mother than thinking about what Lucifer would do to him, especially now that he dangled a job and a favor over his head. "He told me I can repay him with information – valuable information."

"You're a spy now?"

"No, I – he wants more dirt on Crowley, he wants to know why he hasn't challenged him yet. He wants to – to know something, anything. Nobody important to Crowley will tell me facts like that. But – Dean, you have to help me."

For a second – just a minuscule amount of time, Dean considered shoving Adam out the door and never letting him back in.

But he couldn't do that – Adam was family, trying to help one of the last blood relatives in his own life. And hadn't Dean promised? Didn't he always promise? "What sort of information do you need?" he found himself saying.

"A-anything. People Crowley's working with; CEOs, other mafia members, the jobs he's pulling for lately, where he goes for fun on Saturdays – whatever you can tell me. Lucifer wants to know Crowley like the back of his hand. And, you're here on a deal between them, but – Dean, I _know_ you," he said, raising his eyebrows. "You're too good at this sort of thing to be on the bottom rung forever. You're ruthless – you're loyal, you'd do whatever's asked of you – Crowley _has_ to like you, because Lucifer did, and Alastair did – I mean, this is who you are."

Dean took in a breath, held it for a few moments. The room was silent; he couldn't hear anything outside, he couldn't hear or even sense Castiel's hidden presence, and even as Adam grew animated with his spiel, without a voice he looked just as dead and desperate as ever.

And Dean, so badly, wanted to say no; claim that he owed nothing and be done with it; he wasn't meant for this – Castiel said so, Sam had said so, even he had accepted it. Oh, he was good at playing crazy, and then after a while not playing so much, but you couldn't keep the job and stay human, and if he didn't keep that one blanket sentiment of humanism with him, carried it like a shield, then what did he have to separate himself from the monsters?

But Adam was right when he said he was loyal; not to Crowley or Lucifer or Alastair, but he was loyal to the people who earned it, and Adam was on that list preemptively by being blood. "I can't promise anything," Dean said hastily. "I know what you're saying, but I bet Crowley doesn't trust me that much." Which, he knew, was a lie. He could tell Adam the secret he was harboring – the one even Sam didn't know about. If he did, Lucifer might reward the both of them; he might be able to double-cross Crowley and come out with his skin.

But maybe not.

"There's a – a guy I know," he said suddenly, surprising himself. He had to give Adam something decent, something at least partway true, and this was the first dirt he could think of. "We've been around together and he doesn't work for anyone, but he's seen Crowley with some guys – important, rich types, at parties, playing cards. He has their names, and I can start you off with that." He could feel his own blood rush from his face, even as Adam began to grow a less sickly complexion, as if he was feeding upon Dean's own essence. "I don't know how much I'll be able to prompt you after that – Crowley, well, it's hard to tell, but you know that we can't hang around each other so much. We haven't, anyway, but especially not now."

Adam nodded. "I understand. I just, didn't know who else to turn to." He paused. "You'll let me know if anything's going on with you, right?" Dean jerked his head to the affirmative, trying to remain steady.

"Of course. Things are fine for me at the moment but – you know, I'll be here."

Adam smiled, for the first time since he came by. "Thank you, Dean," the sincerity behind it all was enough to confirm that Dean was in the right by helping Adam – by risking his own status, maybe even his own life. "You said I could count on you, and, and I'm glad I could." In a quick, compulsive gesture, he hugged Dean, too fast for Dean to recognize the gesture, much less return it. "Send it as a letter or a telegram or whatever you can, and, and anything else, as you see fit."

"I will," Dean promised. He cast another look outside, and felt uneasy all over again; maybe helping Adam was the right decision, but his brother still wasn't in the best place. The sky was darkening, and street lights flickered on. "It's getting late. Don't keep the missus waiting, huh?"

"Oh, right." Adam went to the door, gaining confidence with each apparent step. He was out in the hallway, and Dean put his hand on the aperture, meeting Adam's eyes.

"Give my regards to your Mom, and the family. And be careful," Dean warned, even as Adam looked magically better than before.

"I will, and you too, Dean." He gave his older brother a wave before slowly walking down the hall.

Dean softly shut the door on his half brother and leaned against it, closing his eyes and letting out a puff of relieved air. "Jesus," he murmured. He eased himself up enough and walked into the washroom, turning on the light.

Castiel was in the bathtub still, his feet resting against the porcelain sides, making his knees tip up like two black-clad mountains. His hands were interlocked on his chest, and he stared up at Dean with wide, unblinking eyes. "I take it we're safe?"

A fully dressed man in his tub was asking if they were alright; wasn't that enough of an indication? Dean couldn't even bring forth any humorless laughter at the sight; instead he just slumped against the side of the tub, propping his back up against the white. His head hit against the lip of the bathtub and he groaned – not out of pain.

"I think I just kicked myself out of the family again."

"Which one?"

"The real one and Lucifer's. Adam's playing a snitch now."

"Nobody likes a look-out," Castiel conceded. "Did you tell him about Crowley's plan?"

"I can't – I couldn't," he rubbed a hand through his hair. "Lucifer's got Adam locked up tight – he said his mom's in the hospital. TB; there's no cheap way to fix that."

"You don't trust Adam?" Castiel wasn't accusatory, just inquisitive.

"I trust him more than I'd trust most people, but that's his mother – that's the only true blood family he's got left – that he cares about that much, at least. If I had the chance to get her back –" he paused, realized what he was saying. "If I could've saved my mom, a half brother I've only seen a little of ain't going to change that, and I can hardly recall her."

"He's not coming with us, then."

"No. I – no, I don't think we can risk it. I know you, and the rest of your family enough, and they'd never sell you out. I don't blame Adam for picking sides; family's family, after all."

"You're his family, too." Castiel supplied.

"Not the one he wants right now." He felt something in his belly clench and cut at the thought; he put a hand to his abdomen, just to be safe. Castiel eased himself forward so that he rested his forearm by Dean's head. "He wouldn't like you, anyway, remember?"

"He didn't notice the books?"

"We were staring straight at each other, mostly, or at least his eyes were on the back of the wall; anything close enough to make out didn't get a once over, I'm sure."

"Isn't my tie on the headboard still there?" Dean couldn't quite recall everything they had gotten up to last night, much less whether they had straightened things out, after.

"Well, I can make up something for that – he won't know it's your tie, after all." Castiel hummed in agreement, and Dean pressed on, not wanting to talk about Adam any longer. "Did you manage to tell Anna and the rest of 'em?"

"That's not the easiest thing to do," Castiel admitted. "I would go anywhere with you, they would go anywhere with me, but no one is clamoring for that sort of change."

"I hear you," Dean closed his eyes; he still wasn't too sure when Lucifer's death date was set out to be, but it wasn't going to be anywhere in the next season; he still had to buy his way out for the Novaks – they had till fall at the very least, and it was just springtime.

"How about I tell them the plan when you tell Sam?"

"Fair enough," Dean said, and they sat together in the washroom for a considerably long time after that.

**xxxx**

Dean thought it was fair enough to say that nothing spectacular happened after Adam's visit – not for the next few months, in any case. He and Castiel managed to go to the state shore in June, trading the brackish, dirty waters of the bay for dull, cold ones. Dean continued to remind him that waters in California were better, and Sam's letters continued to offer proof, as if even from across the country his brother wanted to help sway an argument, though he had no idea that Castiel would be coming along, just yet.

That's where his thoughts were trailing, one day in July, as he went through the apartment and sorted out clothing to carry over to the tailor shop. Every two weeks one or the other would put the laundry in bags and get a free wash; it was better than using the unreliable washer the apartment building had – they didn't have a dryer, either, so Dean had to wait for a guaranteed sunny day to let them drip-dry on the window sill.

Since he and Castiel were the only two who usually saw the inside of their place, clothes were normally strewn this way and that; balled up by the foot of the bed or stuffed in a heaping pile by the chairs, a mess of white, black, and dishwasher gray; denim, cotton, and silk. Dean paused for a moment, looking at the shirt he had scooped up – sometimes it was hard to tell until one of them put on the piece of clothing and saw how it didn't fit, but this one might have been his – the shirt was a slightly nicer quality than the ones Castiel wore in the shop. It was still crisp enough to suggest it had only been worn for a few hours. Turning it over in his hands, he spotted a red streak, nearly hidden, on the top of its collar.

"Huh," Dean said aloud, trying to recall the last time he had gone somewhere that required a nice shirt in the last few days. Unless it had been sitting around for a while but – no, no, that didn't seem right, not if it was bundled up with other things. Maybe it was Castiel's.

He scrutinized the small splotch of color – about the size of his fingernail and faded, like it had been rubbed into the material. It was the color of blood, but bringing it closer it didn't give off a rusty smell. In fact, he caught something else; a quiet, passing scent like it hadn't been there at all. A sweet smell; honey, lilies – it was a perfume.

Despite being alone in the apartment, Dean suddenly turned and looked around the room conspiringly, clutching the garment in his hands like it was about to be ripped from him at any moment.

His mind became a frantic, terrifying race that tried to come up with explanations as quickly as another part of him made accusations.

It could be anything, Dean told himself, thumb running over the stain. He had never seen Anna wear lipstick, but sometimes she had rouge or kohl on so it wasn't out of the question – she never smelt like lilies, either, but Castiel saw her much more than Dean ever did. And – and Castiel _did_ know other people, he hastily reminded himself; neighbors, customers, a drunk stranger could have approached him on his way home from work. Even Balthazar maintained that Castiel didn't care for women. There was obviously an angle Dean wasn't seeing at the moment, that had to be it.

Because if it was anything else…

He swallowed harshly, like he couldn't breathe right, and balled up the shirt so tightly he hoped it would rip. "Cas wouldn't do that," he whispered, eyes shut, the floral smell invading his head and choking him, even after he tossed the shirt down and backed up until he could sit heavily on his bed.

He watched the crumpled top, lying abandoned on the carpet, stain in place looking more pronounced every time Dean gave it a glance. He didn't move for a long time, thinking of nothing, everything, wondering first if Castiel had ever at all seemed off, tried to ignore him, and then hastily thinking that he had never done anything strange – Castiel said he wouldn't hurt him, and he hadn't been wrong; in fact, it had only been Dean who let Castiel down: Early on when he had laughed at the idea that the two of them were good for anything more than a quick roll around in the sheets, and later at Crowley's card table, and even after when he got mad enough to push him away and break the goddamn window – all through that, Castiel hadn't done a thing, why now? Why this? It didn't hold water, the idea of Castiel being unfaithful, and he left it at that.

It didn't make a lick of sense, and if he had some wit about him he would just ask Castiel himself.

That's what he should have done, but instead, at quarter to six when Castiel was almost due home, he got back to the pile of laundry and stuffed all the darks, coloreds, and whites into their respective bags, the crinkled, stained shirt still oozed that sickening smell, even when he pushed it to the bottom of its sack like he was burying a body instead.

Castiel arrived, as regular as ever. Dean kept his mouth shut, didn't hint at a thing. There was a reason he wasn't seeing, he repeated furiously to himself, a constant mantra that lasted four hours straight until bed.

Usually they slept close; entangled after sex or touching because they wanted to. But the thoughts kept him too aggravated to act naturally anymore, so he turned away from Castiel harshly, staring at the wall, and then to the black bags that housed that dirty secret like a heart burrowed under the floor boards. He could still feel that floral mist around them, and for a time he thought that Castiel had actually carried it in with him. But that was ridiculous – impossible. Even if Castiel did go behind his back – not that he would, he reminded himself, gnashing his teeth in the darkness, he was too smart to come back to him smelling like it.

Eventually sleep overtook even the suspicions, and upon waking, Dean felt normal for a split second, like it had all been a jealous dream.

Then Castiel, partway asleep besides him, shifted, moaned, settled back into the pillows, and for the rest of the day Dean couldn't even bear to look the other man in the eye.

**xxxx**

**A/N: I went a little crazy on slang in this chapter. Tin Pan Alley is a slightly curved street that ran through Manhattan; it housed a lot of famous street performers. The Johnson Brothers was a term for mobsters or general henchmen that liked cracking a person's skulls open. When Dean mentions a 'pulp glossie', that's a reference to a pulp fiction magazine, which were popular at the turn of the century. They were 'pulp' due to the cheap unrefined paper the syndicated stories were published on – they were usually about sex, science fiction, crime, or a mix of the genre, and were generally considered trashy. That brings us to the card game. Blackjack, or sometimes called 21, had been played since at least the 1600s with a few variations. It's a bit easier to understand than poker, however. Basically, you play against the house, or dealer, and try to get an amount of cards that exceed the hidden value of the dealer, but do not go over 21. Those who can count cards find this convenient if they play with a large group over a long period of time, because one can eventually determine what the dealer's hidden card might be, and drop out of the game before they lose all their money, or increase their bet and win more. And as a last note, while the ending is a bit dismal, I offer readers to come up with their own explanations as to how Castiel's tie ended up affixed to Dean's headboard (and I may be tempted to write that out myself.)**


	20. Hello, Strangers

Weeks passed; creepingly, sluggishly, something uncertain crouching like a predator in brambles – Dean hated waiting.

The initial find of the damned shirt had dulled some. Days could go by where he forgot about it completely, and life was routine enough to be comfortable. Other times the memory would hit him hard – anything from a woman's laughter to a similar scent met on the street, and Dean would have to bite down something between anger and fear. If Castiel noticed these moments, he didn't go out of his way to address him, except for once; though that may have been a fluke. Dean remembered a point, not even a dozen days ago, where he had heard some line about the possible trysts one of the shop worker's wives may or may not have been having, and his mood was black for the rest of the day.

He got home, tried to shake the feeling, hoping to bury it forever. That stained shirt was long gone; bleached and folded up and placed somewhere else. If he saw it again he would never be able to recognize it. Nonetheless, when Castiel came by an hour later than normal, Dean grumbled a, "Where the hell have _you_ been?" in his general direction.

Castiel, for some reason, looked rather frozen in place, as if shocked; wide eyes turned on the other man. Dean regretted his snappish comment; anger chilling down under the surface again. He didn't want to get irritated by this secret – who could Castiel have gone to? What reason did he have? He seemed happy enough with Dean, just; unless he realized that the unpleasant moods, the work he had to do for Crowley, weren't worth it any longer. Dean resigned himself to thinking that was always a possibility; one that rested more on his shoulders than anyone else. Maybe Castiel was a good deceiver. Maybe, though he didn't want such a thing to be true, he deserved such an outcome.

So he put his feelings back under wraps and shut up. "I stopped by the shop," Castiel said, finally.

"…Right," He looked away. "Sorry, I uh, forgot –" Castiel approached him prudently, like he was expecting another outburst from Dean. That made him feel infinitely worse, knowing he had caused that expression. A moment later Castiel's arms went around him, and he pressed his chin against Dean's shoulder, letting out a particularly sad-sounding sigh. Dean leaned back into the embrace. Work was demanding – both types. Life in itself took a lot out of a person. He thought for a moment that Castiel had yet to ask him for anything more advanced than to pass him some salt or pour him a glass of water or listen to him read some passage of a book that he liked. Castiel didn't owe Dean anything – and with that claim he sank further in his stance.

"You smell like soap," he muttered into Castiel's shirt, closing his eyes.

"I took a bath at my family's house,"

"Tough day at work?" He tried to lean away, not wanting to ruin Castiel's clothes by getting the smell of oil and metal onto the other man. But even as he began to shift back, Castiel's arms held on tight, keeping him close enough so that when he did move, it was only slight enough to allow him to look into Dean's eyes with a different expression than the one he had sported some moments ago. It was a strong intensity; invasive, almost. And yet it piqued curiosity: Castiel looked at him like he was a perfectly familiar stranger. As if he was wondering who, exactly, Dean was to him. But it wasn't quite that, either. It wasn't just an attempt to retain Dean's presence; there was also a sense of wonder, a look that suggested that Dean himself was worth something uncountable and precious – an unexpected thing Castiel found himself in presence of. It wasn't just a kind of affection; it felt like something a lot more serious than that.

The complete and whole absorption by Castiel's grip and the weight upon his gaze – it was too great, and Dean, tired and hungry from work, was left unprepared, unstable, now unable to part because it felt like Castiel was the only force holding him up. This wasn't the look of a person who had someone else's fondness to account for as well, and that revelation soothed and saddened Dean all at once.

For want of action, Dean leaned forward again and pressed his forehead to Castiel's, attempting to reassure, confirm, resolve; whatever he needed.

Then Castiel shut his eyes for a moment, and it was over. "Tough day at work," he repeated back, opening his eyes and smiling gently, the commonplace expression jarring in juxtaposition to the singularity of what came before. They spent the rest of their night together without anything spectacular happening, and for the rest of the week, as a matter of fact.

Dean, however, did find that his doubts and reminders of the shirt were much easier to push away now, if not to necessarily forget.

Besides that, though, Crowley had given him a few more jobs, and he settled into the pattern of it as much as he could. His subconscious, however, proved intolerable, and left him chasing nightmares at an exhausted pace.

Some nights he lied motionless in bed, sheets curled around his body, Castiel sleeping obliviously just a few inches away. Sometimes Castiel faced his back, winding warm arms around him; other times it was Dean who found a meditative spot between Castiel's neck and shoulder and held on. Occasionally they turned towards one another, backs curved, fingers close if not touching or entangled.

Castiel's presence lulled him in the nighttime as well as the day, but there were some burdens even he couldn't help shield Dean from, and he would spend hours staring at the ceiling, out the backlit windows of the apartment, or at Castiel himself. On certain incidents, his friend appeared to have his own peaceless nights; once or twice they'd found themselves both awake at a horrid hour, work the next morning, and they couldn't seem to drag themselves to read, or talk more than a few murmurs; even kissing seemed too difficult. Instead they would look at one another, rest against the other's warm body – Dean would reach up and pet Castiel's hair for a long while, Castiel would breathe in a steady rhythm against Dean's neck and rest his palm over his heart. Maybe they got to sleep after such silent sessions, but maybe not.

Innocuous moments covered their lives. There was work, there were friends – Adam had followed his brother's advice and stayed in the backdrop. Dean was always still wondering if he would see Adam at his door again, if he had somehow realized that the two of them hadn't been alone that day in the apartment, or if his brother was no more than a lost cause. He hoped not, just like he hoped for Sam's happiness more than his own. Adam had so much going for him: His family was getting on beautifully, and he knew his brother had something good because on the rare event that he'd see them or think hard on them; his wife and child, he found himself with a deepset yearning that matched melancholy more than envy.

The Novaks were around. They already put his habit of lazing about their flat to use and had him watch Misha if one of them was out or busy; the kid talked, half gibberish and half English, and seemed happy enough to have a new face to look at.

All in all they were just getting on, though as summer thickened and bolstered through June, July, and into August, Dean was beginning to dread Sam's letters, knowing what would be the result of it.

Castiel came home one Tuesday evening, and Dean barely waited for him to close the apartment door before asking, "Do you think you're more of a Cassie or a Catherine?"

"…Excuse me?"

Dean stuck the pencil behind his ear and turned from where he sat, at the table. Castiel was staring bewilderedly at him, and he tried not to laugh at the expression on his face. He gestured back to the pile of mail. "I'm telling Sam about the payment process, and the guests."

"But you cannot call me Castiel?" he hung up his coat and walked over to the table, picking up the piece of paper and flicking his eyes across the page in rapid motions. He skimmed through mentions of weather and jobs and Sam's future child. "You're writing that you met someone…"

"Some lady who swept me off my feet, yeah. A real whirlwind romance." Castiel's confused look didn't abate.

"But why?"

"Like you said, people might check the postage, and I can't write out exactly what's happening here anymore."

Castiel pulled up a chair and handed Dean the letter. "But why are you creating a new persona for me? As a woman, too?"

"Because at some point, Sam's going to know everything about us – that we're not, well, we're not friends like he thinks we are. He'll need to know that you're coming with me, and your family, but if someone gets a hold of any letters, well, getting found out like that isn't good news for either of us."

"But how will he know you're talking about me?"

Dean held up a postage stamp. "Did you know you can write on these, stick 'em to the envelope, and when you peel them off later they still keep the message?"

Castiel's eyes flicked from the stamp to the piece of paper. "So the woman is a code for me, then."

"Yes. And I'm leaving a note about Lucifer here, too."

"But how will he know to look at the stamp?"

"I planned on putting a P.S. at the bottom, telling him to put it in his collection."

"Sam has a stamp collection?" Dean chuckled.

"No, but he's got the right demeanor to. 'Sides, these are kind of interesting looking. I got them as an exotic set – they're a little bigger, too; easier to write on."

The stamps illustrated some sort of desert caravan comprised of green trucks and camels, riding across orange sand. You could line up three to get something of a systematic picture; allegedly they came from Egypt, but Dean rolled his eyes when he saw that in the corner store he picked them up from. "I figured I'd dump the other matching ones into the letter, too, just to make it more authentic. If anyone has already been looking through the mail, they're probably not dedicated enough to remember what my brother's hobbies are."

"What if they replace the envelope?"

"Then they'd have to find a matching stamp. I'll mention he needs the consecutive three. Most of the time you can just get a fine point knife, work the seal open, and stick it shut again with a thin layer of wax; usually it takes a good half hour to do; anyone with sleight of hand can figure it out." Castiel squinted at him for a moment, his look on the verge of disapproving. "What?"

Castiel merely shook his head, examined the letter that was still in his hands. "That is a rather impressive idea, actually," he admitted, after apparently running over the plan in his head once more. Dean smiled at the compliment.

"Thanks," Castiel paused again for another moment, lips parted a bit; Dean leaned across the table, edging out of his seat a few inches, to kiss Castiel – the look the other man got when he was concentrating and on the cusp of forming a sentence was an incredibly attractive one, and he hadn't exactly greeted Castiel properly when he came home.

Dean could feel Castiel's eyes close, lashes grazing his cheek, and the other smiled into the kiss. It wasn't deep or harried or anything like that, but it was a long, comfortable pull, one that ended with Castiel tracing his fingers round the shell of Dean's ear and pulling out the pencil he had stuck there.

Castiel leaned back just enough that Dean's mouth was out of reach. "Finish the letter," he murmured, a white line of teeth showing as he spoke. He handed him his pencil back, and Dean sank back into the chair. After another pause he went, "I suppose Cassie would do," and he trailed off, presumably to change his clothes or find one of the many novels that lounged around their room.

When he was done, Dean stared at the off-white back of the stamp. The surface was about an inch and a half by another inch, and in that precious little space he had written out three sentences:

_'Cassie' is Castiel. To get to you, have to off Lucifer. No other way, I'm sorry._

**xxxx **

In a few words, Sam wasn't pleased.

Usually their letters were long – at least two pages of narrow scrawl from the both of them. Sometimes Sam even sent pictures, or postcards he found interesting, or thought Dean might like. And they covered anything from the weather to some odd happening, answering follow up questions from a past piece of correspondence, and generally just surmised the last two weeks or so of news. Sam had put, right in the beginning, that he had submitted a résumé into twenty different practicing law firms, and was beginning to enroll in a few college courses for September. '_It's a dim hope – not as unlikely as _other_ things, though._' Which was an odd way to say that line. The rest of the letter was curt, more like a business proposal than a personal note between two brothers. And other passive-aggressive statements popped up. While it was obvious that Sam had received the news as he should have, he continued to subtly rally against the entire idea.

Truthfully Dean didn't expect any less, though it still made him wince. He put off replying for a few days longer than normal because of it. He hadn't explicitly mentioned that Castiel and his family would be coming along, either – he wanted to work up to that. Or at least that was what he told himself. There was also the grave issue of how Sam would take Dean's newly added company; at the moment he seemed more concerned about Lucifer than what he had mentioned of Castiel, if there was a silver lining to it at all.

"He'll have to know about us – the whole thing about us – at some point," Castiel had coolly supplied when Dean let him read over Sam's most recent letter himself. It echoed Dean's sentiments from before, and logically that was a valid point, but it did nothing to calm him.

"Sure, but," Dean fidgeted at the idea of writing that down, even if it was coded with a woman's name and a different pretense. "I'm not exactly excited about it." His brother was smart – wonderfully intelligent, despite all the jokes Dean had made over the years. But at the same time, Sam never would guess that Dean was with Castiel in more than just some incredibly close friendship; it wasn't because his brother hadn't paid attention to him, it was just because no one ever thought that their own brother went after men and women in the same sort of way. It was always somebody _else_ who did that, not your family, not your friends. Dean imagined Sam's entire perception of him crashing at his feet – and right after he had told Sam about Lucifer? No, he knew he'd wait; partially for his own fear, but some of the motivation came from not wanting Sam to go crazy from another confession.

Castiel stared at the table for a moment – they had been picking through dinner. Dean used the moment of silence to crane his neck and stare outside. The sky was navy, and a warm rain washed down – the streets glistened and the lamps were hazy in the downfall.

"Do you think he'll cut ties with you because of me?" Castiel asked in a quiet voice; Dean inadvertently swallowed.

"I don't know," he said, feeling bad about the inadequate answer. In all honesty he wasn't sure what Sam would think. "I mean, he's my brother – I'd do anything for him."

"Of course," Castiel said. He didn't seem affected by the conversation, looking somewhere else. Not at Dean, not really anywhere. Inward, perhaps, even if his eyes were still looking at the glossed wood of the table.

"And, when we started getting… close, serious – he was gone, you two have only met the once, and he gets these mostly true stories about you, but being friends with a guy and being how we are is…"

"Different," Castiel offered, from the dredges of his mind. Castiel still avoided his gaze, but Dean couldn't tell if he had offended the other man, or he just had his own things to think on.

"I mean, he's more open than I am, and, and whenever he comments about my stories, he says that he likes you."

"That's good, at least." Castiel blinked. "You remember how I thought Sam was kinder than most people usually are, and that's why I gave you a chance?"

"Yeah,"

"Maybe it's the same for him. He might, say, get the impression that I'm keeping you from doing something too terrible in his absence. At least until Lucifer, but," He shrugged. "Worry about it when it comes around, I suppose."

"That's what I was aiming for."

Castiel looked farther down, where papers and odds and ends were stacked on the other half of the bench. "Did you get any other mail today?" he asked casually, and he pointed to a few things on top, near Dean's elbow.

Dean turned a bit and remembered that he had gotten a few other things from the slot in the lobby, but Sam's business always took first priority. "I didn't look too close at it," he muttered, thumbing through a small travel brochure, two magazines, and, nestled between those, a small envelope. It didn't have a return address, or a sender's for that matter. Dean slid it open with a fingernail and half expected it to explode in his hands.

Inside was a telegram, lines of words pasted onto a heavy cardstock – the paper was smoother than normal; expensive, probably.

"What is it?" Castiel asked.

Dean titled his head; the message was simple: An address, a time, but it was the owner of the residence that boggled him the most.

"It's from Crowley's place," Dean said, after a moment. "It's a meeting request for tomorrow, at his house."

**xxxx**

Crowley had said that he'd be in touch – but that could have meant a range of things. Dean was getting jobs, and the lack of payment meant that Crowley was accounting them for an insured safe passage to California. But apparently Crowley's promise also meant that he would be seeing the other face to face.

It was another sleepless night for Dean. He stared at the ceiling of the apartment, wondering if this was about Lucifer or, well, any horrible topic in the world, really – there was a lot to pick at, in the late hours of the night. Castiel wasn't as bad, though it took him some time to doze off and a few times he had startled awake, mumbling incoherently, Russian words strung together in an unconscious cloud. Dean had whispered some gentle nonsense until he calmed down. In the interim of that, Dean watched the shadows of furniture and clothes shift in the darkness and wondered if it was better to close his eyes against the visions or watch them, just in case.

Right before morning he drifted off. When he woke two hours later, Castiel was shaking him, telling him he'd be late to work otherwise. By the time he made himself decent, or at least got into his uniform for the garage, Castiel had poured him coffee, and was disinterestedly flipping through the paper.

"What do you think he wants to talk to you about?" Castiel said, once Dean sat down.

"I could only guess. Lucifer, presumably. Might've found a death date for him." Castiel looked like he wanted to say something, but he bit back his words. "What if he wants me to kill Alastair?" he asked, idea jumping up from seemingly nowhere. It wouldn't surprise him; if Crowley was getting Lucifer out of the picture, he would obviously have no room for some old, down-and-out protégé of his, either.

Castiel winced at the name. "I'd get in a few extra blows for you," Dean continued.

"Appreciated, but unnecessary." Dean looked up.

"Unnecessary?"

He turned his shoulder. "After your own personal vendetta was settled, there probably wouldn't be much left of him." The implied violence was jarring, but appropriate – he did beat Castiel something awful last year – he still had a scar or two from the incident, and some of his fingers still got a little numb on occasion, even if the burns on his skin had long since healed. After a moment Castiel went back to reading the paper, and Dean closed his eyes, feeling them burn from tiredness. They stayed like that for a few more minutes before they got up, and Dean dumped the half-finished coffee down the sink.

He could practically smell the car oil on his uniform, even after Castiel had run it through with detergent and steel wool on the last washing. He caught the murky clothes Castiel was wearing; he was off to the factory today. Dean tended to leave a few minutes early to walk to the car shop, while Castiel took the train to his. Sometimes they'd walk together, but today he didn't care much for company; he wanted another go at sleeping, in all honesty, but moreover he wanted to collect himself as best as he could – Crowley's note said to come to a certain address in Dyker Heights by six o' clock, which gave him just enough time to slip into a suit after the shop closed and catch a train heading in that direction. Castiel, too, started to move around, silently making sure everything was set for his own day; he didn't seem very talkative either.

"Mind if I take the paper with me?" Castiel said, just as he finished lacing up his work boots. "The ride feels longer, for some reason. They might have started up a new route, I'm not sure."

"Will it make you late?"

"It shouldn't. I usually come with a few minutes to spare." He rolled the newspaper up in a tight coil; he looked down at the floor, brows drawn together.

"Something wrong?"

"I might… have to stay later than normal," Castiel said. "There was mention of paid overtime soon in the factories, and I thought I could take an extra shift."

"You don't need to," Dean offered. He didn't have any extra funds to play around with anymore, and most of Castiel's money went straight to the rest of his family, but the pair of them managed – Dean had been forced into frugality his whole life, and it wasn't until a few years ago he could afford to waste things here and there. The Crash sent everything into the grindstone, but unlike some people, he hadn't lost everything, though it was hard to count his blessings most of the time.

"It's buffer pay, I suppose. Just in case _something_ were to happen."

"That's a pleasant thought." Castiel cocked his head in a helpless, _what can you do_ way, though he had a point. "How long is it?"

"A few hours, they weren't too clear." He trailed Dean to the door, watched him slip on his coat. "I know what to look for; if it seems like a con I'll just come back."

"Alright. I'll wait up for you then," He put his hat on, and pulled Castiel a little bit closer, kissing him on the mouth in farewell. He had meant it to be quick, but Castiel grasped the back of his neck and pushed forward; dragging it out and deepening it as Dean leaned back against the doorframe. Thoughts of work, overtime, and even his meeting with Crowley faded from his mind as his hands slid down to hold Castiel's hips steady.

He was tired – he was so tired he could hardly stand it; and Castiel wasn't fairing that much better, it seemed. But the kiss – god did it give Dean a shoot of energy. There were hands in his hair, a leg between his – and he was drawing the both of them closer without a thought. It wasn't just earnest and keyed up – it felt weighted, in a word. Important. Like they had been waiting for this since trying to go to sleep last night. Chances were the day was going to be terrible for the both of them – menial grunt work was never fun, after all, and it was doubtful things would improve after stepping out the door. So they took it, everything they could.

When the two of them parted the heat between their mouths didn't even begin to dissipate, even as they sucked in air. Before Dean could slow his pulse; before he could even give Castiel a little congratulatory, dirty smirk, Castiel leaned down and pressed a small line of kisses down the exposed line of Dean's throat. This touch was light – any bruises and bites were forced to stay under the clothes, but it didn't stop a flush from rising to Dean's face and his neck.

"Damn, Cas…" he muttered, feeling too dazed to be annoyed when Castiel finally stopped, and stepped out of their embrace. "Things you do to me – you're hardly fair, you know that?"

Castiel gave a subdued smile, a little pleased jolt at the praise, and Dean reached and hauled Castiel back against him, just to feel that warmth, that happiness another time. Dean kissed that expression of humbleness right off Castiel's mouth, but in a shorter burst – they couldn't lean against the threshold all day, no matter how much they wanted to.

They caught their breath, staring at one another. "Sure do love goodbyes, don't you?" Dean said, smoothing his thumb high across Castiel's cheek. He pressed their mouths together in a superficial peck before they parted again.

"Well, I'd say hellos are my favorite, but I'll take what I can get." And at that Dean finally took his leave and slipped out the door. His head was buzzing; a bit from tiredness, some from Castiel. In any case, it left his mind a rather blank slate, where no thoughts appeared. His eyes didn't stray past where his feet were going, and he didn't look anyone in the eye as he walked.

The car shop was a little northwest, and sometimes Dean could hear a gull cry out from the shoreline, echoing against the buildings. The street lined up with rusted metal and dusty shops as he went further along, out of the more residential areas in Coney Island. The change wasn't a subtle one, and the air around him grew drained and salted from the sea; so much so that he could almost hear a person crackle as they walked past him.

He had just rounded a corner when somebody, seemingly out of thin air, grabbed his arm, yanking him into a small alcove of a side alley too thin for a grown man to do anything but slowly squeeze through.

Caught off guard, he blindly pulled his arm out of the other's hold. It went rather easily, and Dean let himself appraise whoever had gotten him in the first place. "Balthazar?" he hissed out, eyebrows shooting up at the shorter man in front of him. Dean's back was to the street, and anyone walking by would think that he was alone, preoccupied with something hidden from the public's view. "What are you doing here?"

"I've been waiting around here all morning," Balthazar replied in a clipped, impatient growl. "Castiel said you took this street more often than not."

Dean forced himself to relax some; Balthazar was completely unpleasant, true, and the harsh tug on his arm left his mood more agitated than before, but being mad about it all wasn't going to get him any clarity, so he bit back any smart comments he had to offer and went, "Did you need something?" The directness seemed to take the other man for surprise, and Dean decided to count that as some sort of gain.

"You familiar with the storehouses up in Bergen?" he inquired, his voice dropped low.

"Familiar, never been around. Not my area." Balthazar snorted.

"Well it's ours, so I suppose you're smart enough to not waste your time there." He paused for a moment, looking at Dean's shoulder, mouth open slightly. "Your people haven't mentioned it lately?"

"Like what? Trouble up there?"

"Territorial stuff, more like." Dean nodded in understanding.

"I haven't, honest. Doesn't mean Crowley or Lucifer or some other guy's not creeping around there. But my hands are clean, for once."

"Good," Which seemed like an odd thing to say, and Balthazar stared back into Dean's eyes again. "Listen, next few days, I'd stay clear of the place. In case you _do_ get word about things up there. Can't expect it to go down any other way but messy."

"Did you tell Castiel?"

"I haven't seen him last few days," he supplied. It wasn't as much an accusation as regarding a bizarre scheduling conflict; it happened. "We've been busy, I guess. The both of us. Figured I could at least see if you would pass on the message; wouldn't do Castiel any good to have you shot to death somewhere without the proper moonlighting and goodbyes and all that."

The comment, sarcastic as it was, made Dean pull back a little. "He – Castiel – he's working an extra shift at the factory tonight. Till ten or so. He wanted to – and it's farther away from Bergen than our apartment so," He made a quick gesture with his hand, trying to ward away the strange awkwardness building between the pair of them. "So as soon as I see him tonight I'll pass everything on. Though he might have some words to say about you next time he does see you."

"Why?"

"Well I mean," He shrugged. "It's _Cas_; that's how he is – protective and all that. Can't go off for the day without him making sure you'll be okay. He's your friend; I can't imagine it being much different for you." Balthazar's face relaxed more than Dean had ever seen him; his shoulders slowly slumped from their rigid stance.

"It's one of those traits Castiel's always had…" he said, trailing off. "Caring for others, I mean." Dean shrugged again.

"Makes him a good friend." Balthazar didn't respond to his agreement, though Dean gave him some time. Finally he said, "Uh, thanks. For the information. I'll pass it on."

Balthazar nodded; eyes settled back on the main road. "You do that."

Dean glanced over his shoulder and backed out of the small gap they had met in. But before Balthazar stepped out, Dean said, "And you'll be alright yourself?"

"Oh, Dean," he spat the words out with a heavily facetious tone. "I didn't think you cared."

"I don't," he said. "Just like you don't care all that much about where I am and what I'm doing." Balthazar snorted, though his head gave a little acknowledging nod. "But Cas cares about the both of us, anyway, so… Might as well make an effort." Dean was met with an appraising look that was critical, of course, but somehow not as judgmental as the all the other instances he'd been privy to before.

"You don't get on in this place without learning a few tricks, here and there," Balthazar offered noncommittally. "Try not to get yourself in stitches. For Castiel's sake, of course." Dean took that as good enough for parting words, and let Balthazar walk on, in the opposite direction. Dean hesitated for a while before another man bumped into his shoulder with a grumble, and he started walking his way towards the garage, hoping he wouldn't be too late.

It was a strange occurrence, Balthazar's stint just then. But still – it had its own level of acceptability towards it. He imagined Castiel being surprised at their exchange, in fact. And, actually, it was about time Castiel had started to mention California to his family.

Maybe they could manage to get Balthazar on board, after all.

**xxxx**

Dean was used to being exhausted by the time he got out of his work. The garage was a mix of clanging sounds; metal on metal, and the grinding voices of men his age, trying to shout over the machinery. It was enough to give him a headache, but he only stopped home long enough to look vaguely presentable, and not long after that he went out and took the Sea Beach Line, sitting for a few stops amoung a cramped evening crowd of other dreary workers just getting off or heading onto their evening shifts. His suit was fresh and clean; a navy, Oxford pattern with the blue monogrammed handkerchief Castiel had given him tucked into his pocket – the other two had been sent to the shop for a wash.

Dean passively observed the rows of gray, sunken ghosts dusting the seats, not quite themselves. He looked different, he knew, subtly tugging at his tie so it hung straight against his shirt, but on the inside his head was still pounding, he longed for rest, and his hands ached. That was normal, for now.

And for how long?

The train stopped and he got onto the platform, wind blowing against his face while the second train approached a few minutes later. He got onto the West End line at New Utrecht, saw the same sad sights, and got off on 71st street. From there it was a brief walk southwards, and he was wandering along 12th avenue, counting numbers until he reached 1214, Crowley's residence in the eternally affluent neighborhood of Dyker Heights.

Some of the houses around here actually had yards – and while Dean's apartment had been built out of the skeleton of an old mansion, these neighborhoods never needed a reason to break up their property. Even the sidewalks Dean stepped on felt newly paved, and looking around it was as if, could one be troubled to lift up the blocks of concrete, you might even find a few gold bricks stored there in the industrialized earth.

Crowley's estate was slightly smaller than his apartment building, and more artistically designed. The home stretched wide across a green yard and well kept shrubs, rose patches, and low hanging Japanese maple trees. The gate was short and made of black metal, too shiny to be iron. The house itself was built with dark, auburn colored stones that reflected whatever dull light that remained in the sky. And yet, the first thing Dean thought of when approaching Crowley's residence for the first time was a medieval castle, situated right in the middle of the most modern city in the world. It had that element of foreboding, like the stone was curling in around him, about to swallow him up.

He stood at the gate, spotting a small buzzer hidden in between the vines of a decorative creeping plant. He pressed it, and no more than five seconds later a young man opened the front door, crossed the distance of the lawn, and opened up the locked gate for him.

They soundlessly wandered back towards the house, the servant trailing just a foot in front of him. He passed the exotic plants and a handful of elaborate marble statues that were prevalent in the side yard. They didn't match any of the more famous poses he had seen in museums or books; he guessed Crowley commissioned them. It was certainly more his style.

The man let him into Crowley's mansion. The impression of a castle didn't lessen once the door closed and he walked into the dimly lit foyer.

The room seemed crowded – every bit of wall space was used, and there were only small patches of polished wood in between sprawling Persian rugs. He tried to surreptitiously glance back at the carpet when he walked by it, wondering if his shoes left a stain.

"Where's Crowley?" he asked the apparently mute worker. He was thin, tan, his brow furrowed like he was upset Dean had spoken.

"His study. He's expecting you."

"Well, I'm glad he remembered to pencil me in." He smirked, hoping to get some sort of affirmation from the other person in the room – working for Crowley at his own home must get old, to put it lightly – but he merely leveled Dean with a callous look, and proceeded to walk him through other corridors and passing rooms absolutely drenched in elegant settings of chandeliers, rugs, and portraits.

The study was behind two double doors of mahogany, overlooking a small deck over the backyard. Crowley stood in a usual black suit, holding a glass of some presumed brandy in his hand.

"Dean Winchester, sir," the man announced in the same tired voice Dean suspected a man of sixty would use. Crowley made a note of acknowledgement, looking up. His boss made a motion with his hand and the servant disappeared, presumably in order to wait just outside the door.

"Well don't just stand there dumbfounded, come in." Dean slowly walked more towards the center of the room, eyes still on Crowley versus the wide stretches of old looking books along the shelves. He had started to forget what wealth incarnate took the shape of, but it didn't take that long to get the picture back into his head.

"What's this meeting about?" Dean asked. He didn't feel up to making small talk.

"Lucifer you dolt, why else would I bother letting you drag in dirt all over my rugs." Dean looked behind him again, but Crowley waved a hand. "No, no, never mind that; though while you're here there's a few other notes – minor jobs to get done." Dean snorted at the word 'minor'. "Unless of course you've decided to drop that fellow that's taken up so much of your existence." Obviously he meant it more as a rhetorical jibe, as he immediately rounded the length of the large desk and pulled back the throne-sized seat so that he could sit in it.

However, he paused, for a moment, right before he sat down. "Ah, sorry, your appearance made me forget my manners. Care for a drink?" Dean eyed the glass on the table and weighed his chances: On the one hand, something that Crowley liked might taste like three figure motor oil to him; on the other, the effects would be the same and he could use some help in settling his nerves.

"Whatever you're having, I guess," he said, and Crowley picked up his partially drained glass and made his way to a well varnished tea table at one end of the room. "Surprised you didn't have a globe bar," he said lightly, though his words were more of a cover-up against his focused look at the drink Crowley was pouring; it was true that if Crowley wanted him out of the way, he'd be better off just shooting him. But it didn't hurt to watch his glass, and make sure that Crowley took a sip of his refilled drink first, before he assumed that nothing was poisoned.

He took a cautionary sniff of the liquor, then an even more prudent sip. As he figured, the spirits were coarse in their bitterness, and his mouth wasn't so much set on fire as it was filled up with smoke. He sputtered a bit, taking out his handkerchief to wipe at his mouth.

"Well if you can't be a man about it," Crowley muttered, waltzing back to his desk. Dean followed him, and seated himself in a leather chair. He folded up the cloth again, and Crowley leaned back and observed the movement. "That's an interesting material there."

"It's just a handkerchief," Dean mumbled, not liking the way his boss eyed the thing; it was from Castiel, after all.

"Of course it's a bloody handkerchief – I meant the moniker so dotingly crafted into them. Looks more expensive than the load of mass made crap that gets thrown around these days." Dean glanced at the curling D.W. script as if seeing it for the first time; it did have a note of elegance to it – the pair of letters were large and curled like the title of an old, handwritten manuscript. The design bordering that and its corner seemed to be one unbroken line. Castiel was a good tailor, all in all. Dean was cut between wanting to rub that fact in his boss's face and wanting to keep the two men as far away from one another as possible.

He settled for the middle ground. "There were three in the set. A personal gift," and after folding the handkerchief away and steeling his gaze for some moments, Crowley just rolled his eyes, his interest lost. Instead he reached for a thick pen and a cream colored cardstock. He jotted a few things down in large, nondiscriminatory font. While the paper and ink itself had hailed from some expensive, special-order-only shop in India most likely, the actual penmanship was unassuming in that it could have belonged to anyone from a rich entrepreneur to a literate factory worker. Dean had never seen handwritten notes made by Crowley before this moment, but he assumed it was a special penmanship he picked just in the case of a paper trail.

"Besides the slaying of Brooklyn's very own dragon," he said, moving down a few lines, "You have two more things to take care of for me." He slid the paper across the desk and Dean picked it up, skimming the lines. There were two sets of names, dates, and addresses. Dean squinted at the first one.

"This Joseph H. Arturi guy wouldn't happen to be the same one I had the pleasant of playing cards with a year ago, would it?" Crowley raised his eyebrows slightly.

"I'm surprised you remembered that,"

"It's important to take notes of death threats, don't you think?" Crowley set out a helpless shrug.

"Well, there isn't much the man can do now except jump off the nearest bridge and drown himself," He calmly reached for the glass he had set down previously and took another generous sip of the vile stuff. Dean recalled the man of stature had been into the stock market; that phrase was rather alien to him, now. After all, no one would bother with the stock market anymore. Most likely not for a while, either.

"He lost everything?" Dean asked.

"Every cent and every bit of respect I had for him."

"So you want me to bump him off?"

Crowley lifted his brows again as a passive affirmation. "I happen to know he's guilty of a few, let's say, acts of treason? Best to nip this in the bud before he does any lasting damage.

"I won't tell you how to do your work, but leaving a note, and then shooting his brains out, might be the option that won't end in your arrest." Dean sighed; Arturi wasn't rich anymore, but he was still remembered as being important. If he were to die it'd be a lot harder to cover up than some doctor or a street musician.

"Does Lucifer need a suicide note, too?" he grumbled.

"I wouldn't worry about Lucifer," Dean looked over at Crowley, eyes widened by degrees. "Actually no, just kidding – Lucifer is still the roadblock before the light and the end of the tunnel, and all that. Part of the reason it's taking so long is that I'm hoping for less of an assassination and well, more of a massacre."

"I have his crazed followers to worry about, too?"

"I actually have been getting some of my men signed up under the guise of working for him," Crowley said.

"Since when?"

"Oh, two, three years now. And don't look so heartbroken, I told you this wasn't the job of a lone gunman," he chastised at the incredulous look Dean was giving him. "I wouldn't have told you if I didn't think it'd be helpful to know why your ending of Lucifer starts an entire chain reaction of a brawl. I've been feeding him workers for quite some time. Not traceable to me, of course. It's quite possible some of them have switched loyalties to him but, well, no skin off my nose. Plenty more where they came from. Some of them are soldiers or errand boys, but from what I hear, some of them are even in his rotating ring of bodyguards." That made Dean hesitate, eyes getting a fraction wider. After all, Adam was a bodyguard now. He had never mentioned Crowley, and in fact seemed to almost enjoy Lucifer's reign over the borough. He was scared of him, yes, but he still wanted to do everything he said.

"You, uh," he coughed into his fist. "You wouldn't happen to know which of the crew over there is yours, do you?"

"If you're looking for a roster, you're not getting it." Crowley said sternly. "I don't want you settling some ridiculous vendetta or playing hero with an old drinking buddy instead of doing what I'm paying you for,"

"Hey," Dean drew back at the harsh tone he had gotten. "I just asked for some names – you said I needed to know this stuff."

"I'm giving you an overview, not the entire classified plan here – you're the biggest secret I've got in this plot."

"Which _means_ that I should know down to every last detail what to expect." Crowley's glare grew harder for every word Dean worked out. He couldn't come out and say this was about Adam either, but he pressed on; "Aren't I supposed to get this sort of information down so I don't end up accidentally offing half your guys?"

"You're accusing _me_ of stopping you on your search for some moral side to this mess?" he asked, like he couldn't believe it himself. "If I recall right, it didn't seem that you had to learn every inch of Romano's history before you filled him full of lead like some dime a dozen coke peddler." Dean's eyes snapped open and hissed in a lungful of air. "Oh, sorry," Crowley said, his mouth twisted into a half smirk, "that really managed to slip out."

"What do you mean 'Romano's history'?" Dean ground out against his teeth, jaw clenching and unclenching.

"How long ago was that – a year? Less? More?"

"About a year and a half," Dean said, remembering cold, March winds drilling into the holes of his clothes. He remembered the grazing shots and the way the frigid waters of the bay sloshed around him as he dumped the good doctor's corpse off an abandoned, creaky dock; the way Sam kept watch, back turned so he didn't have to see the last of a guy slip away, dead but suffering one final time before being silenced forever. Dean knew he recalled so much because, amoung the guilt and other things, that job had brought him to Castiel.

"That long already," Crowley said. "It's a shame though – if you had access to his bank books you'd see he got most of his shipments from my part of the market. I gave him better deals. He was rather on-time with his bills, anyway."

"He worked for Lucifer,"

"Says who? Lucifer – the guys who got their facts from a trickle down method? Quite the trustworthy group, there."

"You say it like you're any better." Crowley bowed his head at that; teeth flashing. For a moment, just for a moment, Dean saw the same biting smile he had seen in Alastair and Lucifer. But when Crowley looked up again, arms crossed casually in front of him, all that wolfishness was gone again, drawn into the shadows.

"I've never had you kill a man in cold blood just to see if you'd do it. Lucifer underestimated you, though; I already know you would. Jump, say how high. Maybe not because you want to, but you never see any other options in the rough." He sighed. "But it was a shame – Romano helped everyone in Bay Ridge, no matter how sad or hopeless the cases seemed, right? But off course _you_ knew that."

Dean bit the inside of his cheek so hard he was waiting for the drip of copper to flood his mouth. "But now I didn't sit here to judge your atrocious past mistakes, did I? Take that," he nodded towards the paper – it was slightly crumpled from where Dean had unwittingly balled his hands into fists. "And make sure you do what you have to. Lucifer's set for March, perhaps April. The next time you get a summons from me will be the last."

"Nothing else?" Dean asked, words shaping themselves into growls. His arms were still quivering, just a bit, so he rested them against his thighs and stared at the paper again. "Besides the obvious?"

"Well as you know most of the mess in Murder's Inc. has been cleaned up, so this is the bottom line." Dean glanced up confusedly as the mention of that particular neighborhood. He hadn't heard a thing about that place, especially not something recent. Crowley picked up on Dean's expression, made a shrewd look of his own, and made a guess:

"Heard about Alastair yet?"

"How do you mean?" Crowley made a scoffing sound and pulled back in his seat, opening one of the drawers in his desk. Rifling around there for a second, he held up that morning's newspaper and laid it across his shiny desk, the edge falling off and giving Dean the silent permission to grab it. He put the paper in his pocket and grabbed the newspaper instead.

"Bottom of page six," Crowley said. The tone he used was strange; self-congratulatory and smug, but there was something else, burrowed in the rasps of his voice, like he hadn't quite figured out what mood he ought to be in at the moment.

After some anxious fumbling, he managed to get to where his boss had instructed. He pushed the paper out wide and flat across the desk's top, eyes dragging through one of the cramped headlines: _Gang Leader Murdered_.

There wasn't a picture to accompany the news – just a few paragraphs about a body and blood being found somewhere in Murder's Inc. The face was beaten in, legs broken, arms twisted and bent at all the wrong angles – but the fingerprints matched. It was Alastair.

The article said that the corpse was partially rotted, stuck inside the fireplace of one of the houses the man might have squatted in from time to time. Doctors said it had been that way for roughly a week or more. His followers had broken up into smaller factions or disappeared like scattered winds; a clumsy, inside mess, according to the reporting journalist that had grabbed the story. Dean's eyes went over the same text two more times, trying to see if there was another missing facet to the story.

When he spoke, his throat was aching; he didn't want to see the look Crowley was giving him. "Didn't even make the front page," he croaked out dryly.

"He wasn't important," Crowley said, his voice light again. "Just a crazy man with some fire power, that's all."

Dean forced a tight smile to his face as he ducked his head down. "Yeah, just some other old nightmare,"

"So sorry you didn't get around to finishing him up yourself," Crowley continued. "Would've done a much better job than this. Then again I can't be sure that there would even be a body for anyone to find."

"Who did this?" Dean asked, lifting his head again. "One of our guys?" Crowley jerked his head once; curt enough to suggest that Dean wouldn't be getting any names.

"Someone who won't survive this business much longer, I can tell you that much," Crowley muttered, gaze darting away towards the large bookshelves in the study. "As sorry as it is, though – this isn't your business anymore." He took the paper back and folded it up. "In fact, it's no one's business anymore – considering the man's dead and gone."

"You're just taking out everybody, aren't you?" Dean muttered, not necessarily horrified at the prospect.

"I can't take over without getting rid of all this mess, now can I?" Dean didn't answer, so Crowley continued to inspect his employee for a few moments. It was uncomfortable, looking up into his dark eyes and wondering if all that class and affability was more smoke and mirrors. "Alright, well," Crowley stood from his seat. "I'd ask if you had any other questions but that might imply something friendly."

Dean slowly stood up, dazed and dizzied by the news. "I'll see myself out," he offered, glancing back at the now darkened plains of Crowley's backyard before opening the door of the study. There was the same young man waiting there, as Dean thought. In the darkness he looked as old as he had sounded; imperfections being drawn out in the low light. He closed the study doors after promising Crowley he'd see his 'visitor' out, and then Dean was being led back outside, evening air a bit cooler than he had expected.

The fence doors were shut and locked behind him, and he turned on his heel to go down the street.

Doctor Romano, Alastair, Lucifer; there was a long list of thoughts churning inside him, all veiled by a thin film of mild shock. What was he supposed to do with all of this? He got back to the train station; it was mostly empty now, in between common work shifts and everything. He bent over in his seat so that his head was close to his knees, and he stared at the dirty floor below.

Lucifer was… Lucifer was far off, yet. He could handle things in a few more months – he'd come up with a plan when things weren't so desolate. He'd get the rest of his debt paid off – two big ones in a week, but he could manage. And Alastair… well, another one done. That was a victory, no matter which way you looked at it. Another evil bastard dead and gone. Dean had heard stories about Crowley; he had once been nothing more than a worker for Lucifer at one point – he had his fair share of meet ups and persuasion and sadism. But still, Dean could never comprehend a being more terrible than Alastair. He knew that he should have felt a form of relief, some joy that he had literally been left to rot. But he couldn't; he felt lacking, in a word. Not because he missed the prick, but more that he hadn't righted himself by filling him full of bullets.

The room's dim glow of lamp light stung his eyes when he stepped into the room. Castiel wasn't there, and Dean felt the emptiness even before he had really looked around for the other's presence. He wasn't sure what he would had done, if Castiel was there: sitting casually in one of the chairs; standing at the counter, fixing himself something to drink; by the window, smoking, or anything else. He shut the door with a light kick of his foot, leaving the door unlocked.

He wasn't sure if he could bring himself to recount everything Crowley had told him. It was too black, the whole business of it, and he didn't want Castiel to worry about it. Oh, he'd tell him, he knew he'd have to. But slowly, at least – not the dump of information Crowley had cruelly given him. He stripped down to his shirt and slacks and sank into his armchair. Even having a silent Castiel beside him was better than sitting in the quiet, all by himself. He picked up a book lying near his feet; the page marker Castiel was using for this one was that hawk's feather he found in the Castskill mountains. He wanted to smile at the memory, but couldn't manage even a sad, futile attempt.

He flipped to a ubiquitous page. This was a poem anthology, and while Dean found himself gazing at the ceiling instead of going through Lord Byron's musings of some girl, or an ode to a Grecian urn, or some boring tale where someone was Christian enough to enjoy dying, it did help shut his mind off from the more serious thoughts he had been left to go over. It wasn't long before he started to drift, on and off, in the warm air of the apartment. He kept his uncomfortable spot in the chair, hoping he could wait up for Castiel like he'd promised. Ten o' clock ticked itself by every time Dean glanced at his watch. How long did Castiel say he'd be out?

Dean forced a sense of rational thought to head. Castiel was a more than capable person, of course; he had started to carry a gun. Most of the trains were probably closed or going irregularly now, anyways; perhaps he had started the journey home on foot, or he was hung up with something.

Still, anxiety grew, and he bent forward in his seat, too anxious to lean back and let drowsiness take him. There was a small, brass clock on the bedside table, and he eyed it until the numbers began to swim and he could hear the individual ticks across the face of it from across the room. A minute, then five, then ten more after that. He only heard the constant _tick-tick-tick_ for the longest time; he couldn't hear the tenants in the other rooms, the streets outside were quiet and dark, barring the small street lamps that lit the way.

It was just short of 11:45, then, when he heard something.

The sound was, for a second, deep and subtle; the beating of a heart; his shallow breathing. But then it ascended, got louder and closer, and Dean realized that someone was rushing up the stairs; sprinting, even, like an invisible entity was on their heels. Dean stood up from the seat, turned towards the door, and took two steps in its direction before the knob flicked over and Castiel burst through, panting, heaving, and shut and bolted the thing back up again.

His back was to him, trench coat over him and hiding all but his pant legs and head. Castiel was bent over, hands on the wood of the door for support. Dean heard him swallow a few times, trying to catch his breath.

"Cas?" he asked, slowly stepping towards him. He couldn't have been hurt – not if he was running that fast. But something had occurred; something bad. "What happened?"

Castiel hissed something incoherent against the door. "What is it?" he tried again. "Talk to me, Cas," he was about to put his hand on Castiel's shoulder when he turned around, and Dean froze in place.

Castiel had never looked like this before; his eyes were wide – not in surprise or curiosity, but in fear. Absolute, unmitigated terror. His face was flushed with sweat, clothes rumpled and jammed against his body like they belonged to somebody else. He took a raggedy breath, his gaze not straying from Dean's face.

"It's Balthazar," he said, and already Dean could feel his stomach drop, breath stuck in his throat. "Somebody shot Balthazar."

**xxxx**

**A/N: I kind of regret not talking about subways more in this story. Surprisingly, New York City did have above-ground, local trains as early as the 1890s, and the mid-1920s saw a decent expansion on tracks. If you were to ride subways around Brooklyn and Manhattan now, you're usually underground, but there are a few stops that are on elevated tracks, and those have a good chance of being the totally rebuilt and replaced versions of some tracks put down ninety years ago. But that's what mass revisions are for, I suppose.**


	21. Goodbye, Friend

Dean made Castiel drink the rest of the bottle of spirits he had stored in the first aid kit before the other could explain any further. He pushed him down in the arm chair, watching Castiel's hands curl and uncurl against the now empty glass, his eyes flicking back and forth. The lamp light in their apartment was low; it was just about black outside – this felt like a horror story, a nightmare, some place far away and unreal. Dean could sense the shadows around the room grow against the walls, pricking his skin, and he opened his mouth to speak when Castiel shut his eyes particularly tight and gasped, as if in shock, and Dean hastily moved towards the door and turned on the ceiling lamp, banishing the darkness into corners and under the furniture, away from them both.

"Okay," he muttered, pulling out one of the wooden chairs and putting it in front of Castiel's seat; their knees almost touched. "Now, tell me what happened. About… all that." He waved his hand, not wanting to say Balthazar's name again. The situation was too grotesque to do much but operate on autopilot.

"I…" Castiel licked his lips. "I was working late, like I said I would. We all got out about nine or so. Most of the trains were out and – and the only ones running were still about a mile or so away from here, more around Brighton," Dean nodded.

"And I walked to the shop," he said, voice cracking and cutting short. He fizzled out for a moment, wiped his fingers across the spot on his lips his tongue had wet. "I figured since I was around, I've been busy lately with factory work anyway, hadn't seen Gabriel or Anna in a few days – hadn't seen… Balthazar in a week or so, and I wanted to at least call on them. I mean, I was tired; I thought a quick talk with them would help me get through the last mile home. I didn't want to stay long because you were –" Castiel stopped again, eyes flickering over into Dean's face. "You were waiting for me.

"They, um, Gabriel and Anna were up already. The kitchen light was on, someone was there."

Dean forced his features to relax as Castiel spoke. He was concerned in wanting to know every angle of the story, but he couldn't bring himself to ask questions. Castiel had never seemed so out of sorts; maybe when he had been talking about life before he came to America, but that was old, buried trauma. This was fresh; so new that you weren't sure what to do with it. Dean was surprised the numbness hadn't set in – unless it had already worn off by the time Castiel arrived here.

"The man's name was – is – Dmitry Woden, a, uh, associate of Balthazar's. I'd met him a few times; he and his family live a few blocks away from the store. They all were surprised to see me there, and Anna was nudging Dmitry, trying to get him to stop talking, but he saw me and he asked if I was over because I had already found out what happened. He was in some state, I could hardly understand him." Castiel peered into his empty cup, then up at Dean. "He told me Balthazar had been shot, over in Bergen, on some job."

Dean felt something in his chest seize up and clutch frantically inside him. His hand unconsciously reached up, as if to steady himself. He had half expected that had been the case but – hearing Castiel tell him the truth of it was as if he had turned a bad idea into fact, just with his words. "Shit," he mumbled, out of want for anything else to say. "Cas…"

"I – I ran, I guess. He told me he had died, some other people got shot up, too, but – Balthazar," He took a heaving breath. "I just backed out of the door and went down the street and – and I wouldn't be surprised if Anna or someone came right up here after me, but," Castiel shook his head. "I – well you had to know."

Dean hesitantly put his hand on Castiel's wrist. "You didn't need to do that for me,"

Castiel looked at Dean's hand, then into his eyes. "I couldn't stay there. I couldn't just sit in the same chair he sat in; go around the apartment he spent so much time at. This place is different. Away from all that." He glanced down at the floor, off to the right, finding something interesting in the swirling patterns of the carpet. "But you did need to know tonight. If not for the fact that you'd have gotten worried, then, well, I know that I have to go back anyway. Stay there for a while."

"The shop?"

"We're his family. Anna, Gabriel, and me, we're the only family he… we're in charge of the funeral, a will, if he has one. We need to go through whatever he has and, and… there'll be the entire neighborhood coming by, talking to us, trying to make us feel better." He sniffed. "However all that goes. By tomorrow everyone will know about this." He paused a moment, blinked, gaze still on the ground. "You know it was some of Crowley's guys who were up there, tonight, too. You didn't do anything, I know. Anna and Gabriel are aware of the same – you're fine in that respect. But do you think everyone else we know is going to understand that? Understand us?"

"No, I get it. If they see me with you, at best they'll take it like it was all a planned thing," Castiel winced at the words, and Dean worried his lip in an unspoken apology. He wanted to tell him about his own run in with Balthazar but – how would that play out? If it was him, all he would be able to think of would be how he could have saved Balthazar if he had known – everything was fixable if you looked with hindsight, and Dean was sure that Castiel would suffer from it soon enough. Dean just couldn't bear to do so here and now.

"What are you going to do now?" Dean asked, tone as calm as he could make it.

"I don't know," Castiel whispered, and Dean didn't have to make any attempts to find more than one meaning behind that line. "Can't sleep, can't relax. You don't need to hear me shuffling about all night, I know that. Wouldn't look good anyway, if I just waltzed back there tomorrow. It might be better if I just headed back."

"I can walk you," Dean said, watching Castiel get up.

"Someone might see us,"

"At least partway," he offered again as he stood, though he already knew he wouldn't be coming along, from the pulled, resolute look on Castiel's face. His steps were heavy now, tired and burdened and hollow sounding. He put the cup on the edge of the kitchen counter, right next to a small pile of books he had stacked there. "How long?" Dean asked, quietly.

"A week." Castiel said, strained, face turned so Dean could still look at him. "A week or so is usually enough to sort these things out, from what I've heard. I've never had to… take care of this sort of thing. When I came here I thought," He abruptly stopped again. Dean saw that his hands were shaking. "Give me a week and I'll come back to you, and, and things will…"

"No," Dean said gently, stepping closer to Castiel. "You don't have to tell me that you'll suddenly feel fine in a week. You don't have to give me any of that. Just – do what you have to. If something more comes up you can always write." Writing to someone not two miles away – the idea could have been funny in a hundred different settings, but not this one. "And that's all you can ask someone, Cas."

Castiel let his eyes go up Dean's body again, this time like he was trying to memorize it. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay. Thank-you for understanding, Dean. Thanks for everything." Dean desperately wanted to reach out, make Castiel feel even marginally better, but he already knew that wasn't going to work. Nothing he could come up with could shed light on someone who had just lost a best friend, a brother by circumstance if not by blood. He couldn't even grab Castiel's hand; the two of them were going to be away for a week or more, in any case – it was best to not do anything that would make them miss the other more than they already were going to.

Another few moments passed, and Dean tried to offer a precarious, encouraging smile. Castiel nodded back, and he unlocked the door, revealed the black hallway of the apartment, and slipped away as a ghost would.

Even though Castiel wasn't there to make disturbances, it took Dean a very, very long time to fall asleep.

**xxxx**

Balthazar was buried three days after Castiel told him the news. The weather was bitter for the first Saturday of September. It had rained the night before; wind churned through the morning until most of the ground had dried up to a brittleness again; everything was cold to the touch.

Dean had heard murmurs of the Bergen massacre the days following; people from work, some of whom lived close enough by that they swore they heard the gunshots. Dean hadn't known anyone involved, besides the one obvious man; he tried to ignore the looks of a few knowing persons that eyed him up and down on the street. He also stayed away from any place that had Russian lettering on it.

Castiel was absent, as he had promised. Dean kept the door to his room unlocked before he went to work, just in case Castiel needed something and managed to get into the building. But nothing moved from its usual spot, every object of Castiel's kept in a casual pause. It was eerie, in a word. So Dean had started walking again – it was better than sitting up in a lonely apartment; it was better than thinking about the things he'd have to do in the coming week.

On Saturday he made it up to Midwood with the intention to turn around soon after; the place was a mixed enough neighborhood. He wouldn't find too many people who knew of him, here. It was late afternoon – still cold.

The street he was walking down was car-heady; turning his head either way displayed a long, dismal view of Washington Cemetery. Dean knew the place well enough, some acquaintances had been laid there over the years he was in the city; if you weren't stuck in cement shoes or given a back wood, shallow burial, you were somewhere in there, amoung the crowded row of tombstones. They all stretched so far that you couldn't quite tell when you hit normal buildings again on the other side. Besides some of the larger parks in New York, this was the only place you could find some flat land.

There was a procession going on in the newer section; it was coming up on Dean's side of the street. Thirty or more people in the distance, dressed up in black suits and slacks; skirts and hats, like a stretched out murder of crows. He was too far away and the rustle of wind was too loud for him to hear anything from the group. He was almost beyond them when he sensed more than saw something from the corner of his eye.

It was red.

Amoung the black and occasional peeks of pale skin, he swore he saw red, and turned his head back enough to curiously scrutinize the group.

For a moment he thought he had imagined it all until a figure moved back – no more than a foot from the mass of the people – and the red sheen of their hair tugged at his vision again.

Short, shoulder length scarlet hair. Dean's steps slowed, and a hand subconsciously grasped at the pikes in the surrounding fence. There were, of course, hundreds of red-headed women with shoulder length hair in the city. But, he felt his mind stutter, if it was _her_…

The person folded back into the black mesh of other mourners and Dean scanned along the edge of the cemetery, catching an opening in the gate not fifty feet away.

Dean ducked inside, eyed the squat stones around him; rounded or squared off from a dull, sandy stone. He felt a wave of apprehension, though he knew it wasn't from the dead bodies.

Even if that was Anna he had glimpsed; even if he had managed to stumble across Balthazar's ceremony at the right time – though this was most likely going to be the right place, considering it was one of the largest and closest burial sites in the city – Castiel had asked for a week; he couldn't join in the proceedings, he certainly couldn't stop by and try to cheer his friend up. There was no point to it. He really _should_ go, he thought furiously, even as his feet remained rooted in front of the small grave digger's house situated at the main entrance. He spotted a few lone attendees situated to their own headstones, and decided that maybe an inconspicuous view might be safe enough.

He went casually over the widened, dirt paths in the field; past markers and stones, eyes focused on the few lonely crypts versus what had drawn him in the first place. He put himself a few rows ahead of the group, plus a respectable leftward distance, so even if someone had noticed him come in, they could only watch the back of his head as he crouched in front of one of the graves.

This particular one read Josephine Montague. Born April 7th, 1876, died January 29th, 1930. It was an odd age to have died, Dean thought to himself. A woman, most likely French, passing away in her fifties – too late for childbirth, still not quite old enough for her body to fail on her. It could have been polio, tuberculosis, some sort of ravaging disease; he blanched at that thought – but there was no mention to it. He tilted his head at the name, contemplated it for a few more moments, before reaching up and tracing his finger around the design at the top; a skull with angel wings framing it. A bit old fashioned, he'd always wondered why that sort of image was carved into stone. A regular angel, or some weeping statue, or a Virgin Mary were normal enough, but this design seemed to combine two very different things; a little too Gothic for his tastes, anyway. No one he had known had that sort of crest on their tombstones. John hadn't gotten anything with his cheaply funded funeral, just a shallow inscription on a ground tile. It might have even worn away by now. And he had never seen his Mother's grave, either – had no clue where it was, except that it was someplace in Kansas, in a lonely green plane of rocks surrounded by wheat – but he figured it would've had a real angel along the stone's face, if it could have been afforded at the time. Out of the few dozen things Dean had retained about Mary: Homemade soup, blonde hair, soothing touches across his forehead and cheeks, angels stuck out in his mind, maybe to go along with her appearance; if she had been religious he never knew, had never asked, and John didn't waste the effort to indulge him or Sam about her. Like so many other things, all those facts and memories had died along with the last half of their parents.

He hadn't thought about the two of them, together, for a long time. Dean slowly pulled his fingers away from the rock, though he continued to stare. His stomach was tight, and to distract himself he attempted to listen to the sounds of whatever the minister might have been telling the crowd.

There were words alright – warbled and falling in and out as the wind came through, and they never sounded like English, or any Romance language, for that matter, but he heard the tone of it if not the content: Some voice instructing the others, leading them into a prayer; ashes to ashes, dust to dust, returning to the Earth, that sort of thing, probably – whatever got told at a funeral. Dean never stuck around for the duration of most burials, anyway. Hadn't understood how the reading from some ancient book was supposed to make the sting of a loved one being a corpse better.

People died – so far Dean hadn't encountered a more universal truth out there. People died, usually for nothing, and usually they went kicking and screaming the entire way through because they couldn't imagine such an indignity happening to _them_; as if dying had never truly entered their minds before that moment. Meanwhile someone was hosting a party the next house over, and a good part of the world was having the time of their lives as someone bled out and breathed their last and realized that all that talk about being saved at the last moment were completely worthless. Dean wasn't sure when he had figured out that ugly truth. It might have been when he was four, the faint memories of a house going up in smoke; or maybe some time a few years later in a sickbed, or when he was twenty-one standing over John's grave, or maybe it was in some nondescript, warped time in a dirty basement with only Alastair and a knife between them. Who knew? Dying certainly didn't scare him. Maybe being alone while he was face down in the pavement, maybe _that_ got to him; his entire encompassed thoughts and emotions nothing but a blip on the radar before he became nothing himself. If he died he at least wanted a few things to say to someone who would care, he felt that would help at least, before he became nothing more than a plaque stuck into the dirt, like the hundreds of lives surrounding him, silent burrows, immortalized as nothing more than a name and a date – everything after start and before finish, however, was guesswork.

So maybe that was why he avoided cemeteries like the plague.

He tossed a glance over his shoulder – he might have been stationary there for nearly an hour, judging by the pain in his shins. But he couldn't see a casket, and he couldn't see a minister's robes. If the pastor had left, chances were the ceremony was just about over.

Just like that a few people began to trickle away.

Dean watched the procession. A couple, a family, a few lone, single men that had probably been comrades of Balthazar – if it _was_ Balthazar there. Twenty minutes later there were only three people left: A short man, a woman with bobbed, crimson hair, and a man standing between them, their faces angled down.

Dean turned back to Elizabeth Montague. He didn't need to see that. He shouldn't have come, not that he knew for certain who was there.

He still didn't move, instead entertaining the notion of putting his hands in his pockets and retreating, head down, back to where he had come from – they wouldn't notice. He could pretend he hadn't seen a thing, offer, perhaps, to come to the grave with Castiel later on, after this thing had somewhat settled. He ran through the thought until he imagined the entire process of leaving, going home, right up until he hit the stairs of the flat, though in reality he hadn't done more than shifted, trying to get blood flow back into his legs.

It took even longer before he bothered to stand; glancing around at the morbid setting like it was so much different at a different height. He pivoted on his heel, hammering it into his brain that he would merely have to walk down this row, cross the dirt path, and –

Castiel was alone, still staring at the grave. And for the life of him Dean couldn't even remember which way his own house was.

But Castiel was there, _right there_, and even if he was too far away to see his face, everything in the scene before him hurt.

He walked slowly, went down the main path and down into the row Balthazar had been put in. Most of the stones here were markers; pits covered with dirt, too cold for grass to poke through yet. Balthazar's hole would remain dark until the spring – the lack of vegetation would betray the earliness of his passing before a person could even read the date, and for some reason Dean kept that thought in his mind for longer than he should have.

He was right behind Castiel, now. There wasn't a tombstone, either, and the gravediggers had yet to arrive. In reality Castiel was merely observing a white, wooden cross with a small serial number painted on the face of it – probably so the stone could be matched properly for later – and a gaping pit with a casket at the bottom, a wreath of pale flowers crowded on top. If the other man noticed his presence, he didn't say anything, and Dean didn't announce it.

It was getting even colder; the sinking sun turned the low-hanging clouds around it red, its color bleeding into them as if it was going out in its very own Harlem sunset. Dean buttoned his coat further, rubbed a hand to his throat to warm it. It wasn't a particularly loud motion, and Castiel didn't stir – physically at least. But words came out anyway. Dry, tired.

"I told you not to come by." Which was a true point, and Dean had no ill feelings about it, either.

"You did," he admitted easily. "I was walking, saw the procession… I thought I saw Anna. I wondered if it really was…" he meant to say _Balthazar's funeral_, but still couldn't bear to say the dead man's name. "I'm sorry," he said, as a second thought. "I kept telling myself the whole way I shouldn't have stopped; if you're mad about it I don't blame you."

"Did anyone see you?"

"Just the back of my head. I was up, over on the left side from you all. No one would have noticed." Castiel didn't say anything in response.

For a moment, Dean wanted to apologize, say he was sorry, about the whole mess – because he was, really. Even if he and Balthazar bared their teeth at one another, neither of them would have wanted to see Castiel where he was right now.

But he couldn't; too many people had told them sorry in the past. It didn't _do_ anything – it certainly didn't make him feel better. So he remained quiet, his chest still tight.

"I saw him," Dean muttered after a few more minutes. "The day he got shot. He found me on the way to work." Castiel's head inched up from the ground, just slightly.

"Really?"

"Grabbed me and pulled me into a side alley. We talked." Castiel didn't respond. "He said not to go up to Bergen. It'd be bloody over there for a while. He told me to tell you, as well – he would've said something himself, but he hadn't seen you. Scheduling conflicts. I said you were up in the factory, far away, safe, and that I'd tell you about it when you got home, but… well, everything else happened and it was too late for that."

"…Did he say anything else?" Castiel sounded oddly congested against the cold air. He coughed once, twice, trying to hide it or get over it, perhaps. Dean still couldn't see his face.

"He said he warned me for your sake; I asked if he was going to be alright… we mentioned you, again, as usual for the two of us, since I said you'd be concerned about him anyway, and he said that's the type of guy you are – caring, he meant, the kind of friend a person would really want." He swallowed, wondered what Castiel's face looked like. "It comes back to you, between us talking. It's the only thing we _can_ talk about, really. Well, could, rather." Dean took note of how Castiel's shoulders had bunched up before glancing back at the ground. "I think… we could've gotten along, though. After some point we would have realized it wasn't worth it – I bet he would have come with us, too, all things considered." Castiel still hadn't moved. "It's not my business and it's mostly my guessing but, but he only had the best intentions for you – which is what you'd want with a friend, I suppose."

"Well," Castiel said, voice especially low, "he came across the Atlantic with me," He paused despite being in the middle of his sentence, and slowly picked up again, "…I guess that, I guess that some little train ride would be e-ease," Castiel brought a hand up to his face and bent over. He looked like he was coughing, like he was sick, but Dean knew better, the way he had cut himself off like he couldn't speak at all, the way his throat cracked like someone cut off his air.

He walked forward and wrapped an arm around Castiel's shoulders, doubled over next to him. He stared at their shoes, the ground, even the dark wood of the casket. Castiel's back quivered slightly, and a few moments later Dean swore he saw something small hit the ground and sink into the grass forever.

He reached for a handkerchief – a dull one he had bought – and passed it over to Castiel, who took his hand off his mouth just long enough to set a few stray tears free, a short gasp of breath, and a cracked note that was like a wounded animal, before he pressed the cotton against his face and drowned it out from everyone, even Dean, tilting his face so that he was pointed away from him.

Belatedly, Dean realized that he had never seen Castiel cry before. Not once. The man could betray emotion when he needed, though he had always gotten the impression that Castiel was a person totally in control of his feelings – someone who could at least choose what to show, when, and to whom.

But Castiel didn't plan this. He didn't have control over this.

In Bulgaria, in the past, there was a person named Castiel – one much different from this being pressed to his side. That Castiel was a teenager; a scared, desperate, half starved creature. An animalistic, devoted thing that cared too much, loved his family so dearly, and watched them all waste into nothing. He had cried then – probably a lot. And after that… after all _that_, how could anything in New York do the same thing?

Another sound came out of Castiel; muffled through the fabric, and Dean felt the other man's knees bending – he was sinking to the ground, and Dean went with him, like he was afraid Castiel would go into the Earth with Balthazar, otherwise. Follow him; follow the rest of his family.

And that's when it hit him – that's when Dean understood.

For Castiel, Balthazar dying was Bulgaria all over again. And nothing he could do, nothing he could say or offer would change that, would make it better. Castiel could die an old man, but he would still recall this moment, staring down a six foot deep pit, cold, dried dirt staining his slacks, city traffic and skyscrapers surrounding him, and all he would remember would be the cold, ashen remnants of burnt out cities; makeshift graves and broken bones and base undignified cruelty. He would remember his brothers, his family, he would remember Raphael and Uriel. And now, when he thought of his friend – the one who had dragged him through Greece, the one person who kept him going for so long – he would think of everything else he had never been able to run away from.

Dean reached his free hand up, rubbed at his eye, just once. His forefinger came back wet, but he wasn't surprised. It was difficult to say whether he pulled Castiel closer for some aborted effort to calm the other, or just to make himself feel better.

They knelt there until Dean couldn't feel his fingers, until he couldn't uncurl his hand from where it grasped Castiel's shoulder. His eyes had long since been dried out by a chilling wind that swept in front of them, and he stared out on the horizon until the sun had snuffed itself out.

He was prepared to stay there all night when Castiel, handkerchief still pressed to his mouth, eyes pink and wet said, "I'd like some time alone."

If a dead man could talk, its voice would've sounded a lot like Castiel Novak's did.

At the same time it was yet another command that only had one solution. He dragged himself away, stumbled home, shivering and perhaps a bit scared for the man he'd left behind.

It was yet another night Dean couldn't go to sleep.

**xxxx**

Crowley had ordered Arturi's heart on a platter in the form of a faux suicide – and that meant a trip up to eastern Greenpoint, and a visit to an old friend.

Benny Laffite lived and worked in a place a lot nicer than what his job description would suggest. Against the frigid air, modern brownstones stood out in rounded, cylinder like shapes. Their colors went through shades of white, brick red, dirt brown – identical against one another, and yet still singular in the scope of the borough. Autumn descended harshly around the city, and Dean's mood hadn't faired any better. His eyes felt raw, he knew they were pink, wrinkles under them betrayed his lack of rest over the days.

Dean tried not to think about how Castiel was faring.

He didn't do the right thing, leaving him in front of his best friend's grave – it was a damn stupid idea, in all truth. But watching Castiel crumble in front of him, fall to the ground like that, it was a terrible reality – it wasn't _right_ – and Dean couldn't bring himself to stay beside such a twisted image. So he was a coward, but Castiel's grief was a personal kind, and even if his method of thought was dull beyond belief, Castiel wasn't. He wouldn't have done anything drastic.

And if something had happened… Anna and Gabriel knew his address.

Dean forced that part of life into the undercurrent of his thoughts, and marched on. He had work to do, after all.

Benny's apartment was in an attractive auburn building with arched windows and white borders along the doorways. He climbed the staircase and rang the bell that corresponded to a particular second floor room. The cold stayed with him, more potent now that he stood still; he tried to glimpse into the lobby, but the frosted glass on the door merely betrayed bleak shapes, and nothing he could pin as a person in any case.

Soon, however, he saw a dark shadow appear and move towards him; it was a figure larger than Dean's, a bit bulky. It paused for a moment just behind the entrance, perhaps trying to recognize Dean's own shape from the other side of the glass.

The door unlatched, and Benny stood in the threshold, a small smile on his face.

"You look like a half drowned cat," he said, cocking his head one way. His smile grew wider. "It's good to see you."

Dean ducked his head, felt a low laugh go through his chest, up his throat. "Same here, Benny. You going to invite me in or what?"

"Come on up, sure. Before the wind knocks you down." And he turned on his heel, leisurely walking back up the staircase. Dean watched him curiously, not because the other was unfamiliar, but because he truly hadn't visited Benny in a while. If Dean's schedule was erratic, though, Benny's was infinitely worse – he might not have even been in the city till last week, for all Dean knew at the moment.

The room he was in was larger than Dean's apartment, and much more elaborately furnished. If the room had a theme of decoration –a compelling case could be made for it being chaotically coincidental – it was a nautical one. The wallpaper was blue, and the drapes crossing the domed windows were white and clean. Most of the furniture was old in a visible way; chipped and dinged, yet the detailing on the corners of tables and the backs of the chairs revealed that they had been around long enough to earn those mark ups from various owners. It had a subtle hint of elegance to it that matched the tenant well.

A stranger might not expect someone of Benny's oppressive stature to act partway the pinnacle of a gentleman come up from the South, part a separate animal all impartial to societal expectations, and that was probably why Dean liked him – one of the reasons, at least.

Still, to people in the know, Benny was the choice talker a mob man would dream about – he heard everything, knew everyone, and managed to keep apathetic to it all. When things got too harsh, his visitors too demanding, he had special ways to disappear; a small fleet of anonymous ships he kept in port, though they also got their fair use by way of smuggling, fishing, and even maintaining some passengers as a inconspicuous transport from state to state. Dean could think of a few others who were neutral parties that worked for high bidders – he had thought Ruby's motive had been the same, early on, before Dean caught scent of her real colors. The only other person who was similar in scope and infamy had to be a thief named Bela Talbot. But while Bela made Dean's teeth clench and his hand protectively stray to anything valuable on his person, he was hardly Benny's customer, and this was one of the first visits that was mostly business.

"Can I get you anything?" Benny asked as he walked further into the room, his head casually turned so that he could look at Dean's face. "Water? Wine? Something stronger?"

"I'm off till tomorrow; what sort of shipment's have you got?"

"The only fine class moonshine you'll ever get your hands on." He walked over to a large bookcase and bent over, picking up a small rug laid to the left of it. There were two sets of grooves in the wood, parallel to each other, and Benny edged what seemed to be a few hundred pounds of wood and paper several feet over, revealing a window-sized bar cut into the alcove.

"You added another one?" Dean asked, nodding to the mantelpiece in the center of the wall. The apartments had long since been heated by standing radiators, and the last time he had been by – admittedly not since before Sam left – Benny had kept a rather extensively foreign and impressively illegal stash of booze behind a painting above the fireplace – a large cubby having been installed where the smoke chute would have been.

"Some fella in black was poking around here a few months ago," Benny said, picking up this bottle or that before settling on one with dark blue glass. He shut the bar back up into the wall. "Guess he's been around, seen the usual spots to put 'em."

"See any time?"

"Me? Nah, gave him some drinks, some cash, a few pointers to a couple low class guys he'd been looking for, and he told me to get rid of the fire hazard. Headed down to Jersey till everyone got over it. That was – June, I think. This June. Got back not a month ago. Not that you'd know or anything."

"I was busy," Dean offered passively, watching as Benny disappeared through a wide threshold, into a brightly lit kitchen. "Anyways, how was Jersey?"

"Same as usual – prisons and speakeasies overflowing, plenty of customers and sellers." He wandered back into the front room, carrying two squat glasses with one hand, the newly opened bottle with another. He settled the cups on a small side table and poured the liquor into them. If Benny happened to host a few friends over, it would have been around this bench – four armchairs were next to it, and Dean sat in one so that his back was to the fireplace. He could glance up and out the window. Benny sat on the right of him, in front of a sea man's desk and the other half of the room, facing the entrance to his apartment. "Other than that life's been as usual; boring, predictable, how it usually is for us."

"Of course." Benny reached for his glass first and reclined with it. Dean broke his usual habit and didn't bother waiting for Benny to sample his portion before taking a small pull to taste. It was slightly cooler than room temperature from the storage, made his mouth warm; the flavor was hard to distinguish at the moment. "Where's this from?"

"Some little place in the Vieux Carré," Benny said, two different accents coinciding in that one phrase. "Don't give me that look. You think I'd give you something that'd make you go blind? It's high quality stuff from a high quality neighborhood."

"Most of my memories from New Orleans are just crap weather and street performers." Dean muttered, holding the cup up to the dim light coming from the window; it was like the thin syrup that formed in congealed jars of honey, and it seemed to move with a slow measure of viscousness. Dean took a bigger drink of it, and Benny was right – it didn't make him want to do a spit take like Crowley's drink did weeks ago. This stuff was on the cusp of southern sweetness, and the flavor was full and sparking – maybe too much. Dean let out a cough despite himself and Benny looked as if he was trying not to laugh.

"Don't tell me you can't stomach that?" he asked, draining about half of his glass, as if to show him up.

"No, no, it's good – it's more than that. Just haven't been in the bars much, recently. Haven't had much of anything for a while."

"Now, really? Dean Winchester not drinking like a fish? What have _you_ been up to these past months?" Dean bit the inside of his mouth and contemplated his answer for some time. He took another drink of the moonshine and managed to keep it down like he should have.

"A bit of this –"

"–A bit of that?" Benny finished, raising an eyebrow.

"Let's just say I've been trying to stay out of trouble. For Sam's sake. Since he's not exactly around anymore."

"Yeah, I know." Benny said, softly. Sam had never liked Benny all that much – he had probably put him in the same boat as Ruby; a guy waiting to stab him in the back, and Dean supposed he couldn't blame him, no matter how much he wished both of them could have been friends. Benny was nice, or smart enough, to not touch upon the subject. "So, how's that been going for you?" Dean contemplated the glass again.

"About as well as you'd think. Which is kind of why I'm here." He glanced up at Benny again and shifted in his seat; expecting some sort of impatient behavior that never came. In times like this he wasn't too sure why the other man was so fond of him; maybe it was the typical lack of loyalty to whoever he worked for, or maybe it was because they had met at a party first off, years ago, when his Father was hardly cold in the ground and he couldn't be sure whether he'd like Brooklyn or not. That had been before Adam had taken Sam and him over to Alastair, even. At that point he hadn't known Benny as anything more important than the seat filler next to him, a sociable one, at least. His Southern accent in New York was one of the most alien sights he'd been privy to, and it reminded him of a few rotten memories and plenty of lazy, hot seasons spent from Georgia through Texas, so something like nostalgia might have made him return his jabs at conversation with more than one word answers. They had talked about things that were a lot less serious and a lot more entertaining than forged notes and secret deaths and the duties of a man linked to the mob, back then. The next time they met Dean had been set through the wringer with Alastair, was just starting with Lucifer, and needed some information for a case; the two of them recognized each other and talk flowed just as easily as the first time half a year before, and that had been that.

Their visits were still far more sporadic than what constituted a regular friendship, but it was never hard for one to converse with the other. Benny leaned forward slightly in the chair, waiting good-naturedly, as always, for Dean to continue, as if the two of them had all the time in the world. "Are you familiar with Joe Arturi, the business-guy?" Dean asked.

"Is the Pope Catholic? What do you need to know about him?"

"Nothing really," Dean said. His mind flashed to Doctor Romano – and how little he needed to know about him before shooting him down. In the back of his mind he wondered if Arturi deserved what Crowley ordered; to be fair, he had been in with Crowley's lot anyway, and hadn't done anything to endear himself to Dean when they met briefly last summer, but still, even if he found out Arturi had sold his fortune and given all of it away to convents and charities, Dean was in too deep to decline. Certain jobs were avoidable; Romano's had been, this wasn't, and it didn't necessarily make things better, except Dean used it as fuel to resolve any second guesses he had about the whole situation. "Crowley wants him dead."

"Oh, is that all?"

"He suggested a made up suicide. He's still too important for a lone gunman to go around and blow his head off – people would want a culprit."

"You want me to write the note, then?" Dean's eyes moved towards the bookshelves in the back of the room; several of them were on the subject of calligraphy and graphology, as he had found out a few years ago from idle exploration of the man's flat.

"It's a specialty of yours, isn't it?"  
>"Well, I'd say I'm a specialist in a few things, but if that's what you want this time around. Don't suppose you have an example of the body-to-be's handwriting, do you?" Dean slipped his hand into one of the inside pockets of his suit. He had rifled around the city hall for a few hours the other day, looking at some business records. For the most part he had only managed to 'accidentally' walk off with a compilation of Arturi's signatures, but on occasion he had seen short, partial notes attached to the rough drafts of business plans and legal contracts. One of them was even a blue print of the Capitol Hotel's basement; a few different pieces of handwriting lingered around the edges, arrows made in pen and pencil, but Dean had figured out which one belonged to the man he needed. It was odd to see that one, he remembered. Standing around the cluttered shelves and dusty folders filled with technical jargon and pictures and things that weren't quite old enough to fit into a museum yet.<p>

He had even wondered, briefly, if Arturi and Crowley had once been friends – he had seen his boss's writing there, too. But of course being someone's friend didn't save them much trouble – _he_ had killed Doctor Romano, after all.

Dean handed the bundle of papers over to Benny. He took a few minutes to look them over, slip one sheaf over another, brows drawn together in consideration. "Writing's slanted left," he said, after a moment. "Sharp angles – big letters. Doesn't dot the I's. Not too difficult to imitate. Is there anything specific you need to have him say?" he asked, getting up from his seat and moving behind the desk.

"Anything convincing. I figured losing most of your fortune in the stock crash and not being able to get it back up after months of wringing your hands would be enough to drive a guy into the dust."

Benny took a key out of his pocket and unlocked the top of the desk, sliding the covering up with a shudder. The high back of it prevented Dean from seeing the work his friend was doing, though this hadn't been the first time Benny had to mock a person's penmanship. He mostly did official papers; got certain people the necessary citizenship documents, certificates of authenticity, personal letters, even some simple identification of who wrote what – there had been a college kid in here, once when Dean had stopped by, trying to not get flunked out of his university for cheating on some term paper. It was all unbiased work, based on price more than anything else. Dean had never been forced to pay over a service charge, though. Most of the time Benny dressed up his help like an afterthought, or some quick favor he didn't mind doing. Dean had caught onto that quick, so Benny had tried to persuade him with exchanging information – Benny lived off of facts and theories, after all. Sometimes Dean would put up a fight about it, try to get Benny to accept a check or a service, and sometimes Benny managed to get him to take the favors with a polite nod and a smile – this seemed to be one of the latter occasions.

In the quiet room, he heard some pieces of paper rustling again, the sound of metal and glass – expensive pens – clinking around together. Benny bent over in his seat until he almost disappeared behind the desk, and he didn't resurface until about ten minutes later.

"His wife divorced him in, what was it? December, 1929, I think. No kids, no business – though he wasn't a huge fan of the world, so I just put it down as: _'This is only partly my problem; it's not my fault I tried and failed too many times if everyone else failed me first. I just wanted to do something, make something, the money was nice but my personal life wasn't. When the money ran out I did, too. This is the last time anyone will ever listen to me, so thanks for nothing, goodbye.'_" Benny paused for a moment. "Too melodramatic, do you think?"

"Guy used to own millions, he's allowed to be melodramatic in a fake suicide note, I suppose. Grant him that."

"Fair enough," He bent back down again, and Dean heard the hard press of a pen moving in a flourish – Arturi's validating signature, probably. "So, now I have to ask, how are you going to deliver this to Arturi's doorstep?"

"He's holed up in the Hotel Pennsylvania on 7th avenue at the moment. Twentieth floor, number 2017. A bit between houses."

"Not the worst place to off yourself in, right? But it doesn't explain how you're going to get there."

"That place is huge – it has over two thousand rooms, has its own mail room and everything, too, for crying out loud – personal couriers." Still, Benny's look was a doubtful one.

"So you're going to walk in dressed as a newsboy? Little old for that, don't you think?"

"I don't know, Bugsy managed just fine and he's got a couple of years on me." Dean managed to smirk, pulled a similar reaction out of Benny. "All I have to do is say that he ordered something particular – which just happens to be a pistol he got from a hunting shop. Not two seconds after I supposedly leave the guy, he blows his brains out. I'm just some poor, unwitting accomplice in the whole mess, gone before anybody knows where the gunshot even came from."

"Alright, alright. You know what you're doing. Let me just wipe the finger prints off and I'll get you a bag to hold this. Make sure you don't crease it." He pulled open a drawer in the desk and rifled around in it for a thin cloth; briefly Dean saw that it looked similar to a jeweler's shining rag. He continued to watch the cut off form of his friend at work, and there was no doubt in his mind that, job-related as it was, this was world's better than Crowley's place.

He let Crowley flicker in his mind again, and wondered if Benny knew something that his boss wouldn't want him to know.

Most of the time Dean sought Benny out for decent company; though more than once they'd been talking and something surprising had slipped out of the other man's mouth; he wasn't too afraid of sharing his findings with Dean, and Crowley's own risen guard from days prior made him resentful and hungry for all the wrong reasons – so he said, after a minute, "Can I ask something?"

"Sure," Dean hesitated, and covered it up by finishing his glass. It wasn't because he wanted to be kept in the dark so much as he didn't know what he wanted to illuminate first.

"It's about Alastair." Benny glanced up; his eyes shone a bit in interest.

"What about him?"

"Do you know who killed him?"

Benny stood up again, wandered further back into the apartment, and opened up a cabinet underneath the shelf of books that didn't hide a bar – so far as Dean knew. "When I first got the news I thought you'd done it, to be honest."

"Well, I didn't – just wish I had." Dean reached over and gave himself a refill. On second thought, he topped off Benny's glass, too, which sat abandoned next to the partially empty bottle. With part of the liquid out of it, the glass had gone lighter, less navy, more like the darkened petals of a forget-me-not, or maybe, well – Dean pointedly turned his head just in time to see Benny straighten up again with a quality looking, black velvet bag, about the size of a sheet of stationary. "Reporters are thinking it was an inside job."

"I know you didn't," Benny said, and he slid the faux letter into the bag with the tip of his finger. "But I doubt Alastair got that kind of treatment from his own."

"Yeah, Crowley told me the same thing."

"You've spoken with Crowley?"

"A few days back."

"About what?"

"This work,"

"Surely he could've just sent you a letter. He's not a fan of the personal calls unless it's something drastic." Dean didn't make a move to open his mouth. "Alright, harder work too, right? Some secret I don't already know."

"You might not," Dean muttered, after a moment. "Crowley said his guys were responsible, but he didn't have any kind words to say about them, and he didn't tell me who actually did it."

"And you're willing to believe what he tells you?" A chill went up Dean's spine at that thought, but he tried to force it away.

"I'm asking _you_, aren't I? I know I can't trust him for telling me important things any more than he can trust me, but it's an understanding between us." He sighed, sinking more into his seat and cradling his drink partially in his lap. "It's nothing new though, I guess. Feels like I can't trust hardly anyone these days."

"That's how I've felt for a good fifteen years." Benny sat down, and settled the bag in the empty armchair next to him. "Alright, if it was Crowley's guys, it sounds more right than anyone else. I'm mostly sure it wasn't an inside job, no matter what the police reports are saying."

"But why?"

"Alastair's into the illegal arms trade – he sells things like semi-automatics, Winchesters and other Tommys – things with casings as long as the barrels on some other guns. Not, well, not your Model 30. If his guys were to go against him, you'd think they'd do more than shoot him with a .44 caliber on a revolver. That's more your style, which might've been why I thought you were the guilty one. Besides the more obvious reasons."

"It's a good aim," Dean grunted, recalling a refurbished Smith and Wesson model he had since given to Castiel for protection; a weapon he knew the other man kept and stored in the deep pockets of his trench coat, trying to ignore and keep as far away from his skin as he could. If he was walking with Dean the first thing he did was take it out and put it in one of the kitchen cabinets, so that when he wanted a smoke he wouldn't have to brush cold metal that didn't belong to his cigarette case. "And anyway, it's not with me for the moment. I lent it to someone." Benny opened his mouth, and Dean already knew he was going to ask who had managed to wrestle his precious handgun out of his pockets, but he beat him to the chase and said, "So if it ain't Alastair, then why not Lucifer?"

"Because Crowley seems like the most interested don in Brooklyn when it comes to getting rid of anyone with guns and guys to pull the triggers. I mean, Arturi now? He was a business partner in a sense – a couple weeks ago there was another guy he had relations with, Toce, I think. Shot in the street. It could've been anyone but," He shrugged, Dean's brain worked to remember how he knew that name as well. "I don't know who _did_ beat the hell out of your guy and put a round of bullets into him, but your best bet is someone on the same payroll as you. Someone else who really, _really_ didn't like him much."

"You think it was a personal thing? Like, revenge motivated?"

"I don't know, how many strangers have _you_ stuffed into fire places to rot for a week?" Dean hummed, more to answer without giving up anything else. "But there have been a few strange deaths around here; a little moreso than usual, and a lot of them seem to be suggesting Crowley's group."

"Like the Bergen incident a few days back," Dean supplied.

"Yeah, like that. Ten Russian guys dead, two missing. Probably nowhere good, if they're even alive. Only four of Crowley's men went down – there's blood still stuck on the concrete down there, you know that? A couple of officer friends of mine let me look at the case notes."

"They're that desperate?" Benny shrugged.

"Curious, more like. I told them the gangs but, Crowley's in too deep for cops to do more than scare him off to Miami for a month's vacation and lock up a few of his guys – and you weren't in that, right?"

Dean shook his head. "No, no – though one of the guys, um, Balthazar, Russian?"

"Right,"

"He told me the morning of on my way to work, warned me about staying out of there."

Benny stared at him as if he hadn't heard what Dean said. "One of the Russian guys… warned _you_?"

"He had a friend he wanted to keep peace with, so he figured passing a warning onto me to give to him would have been the best way to do that."

"Another red, then?" Benny smirked.

"He's not _red_," Dean said, more exasperated than annoyed. Benny had a grin slowly emerge on his face, teeth white and sharp at Dean's defensive answer.

"Involved in a bit of this, a bit of that, huh? You really weren't kidding." Dean rubbed the back of his neck, and tried not to guess if there was a euphemism hiding away in the other's comment. "So, how's the _friend_ doing, since Balthazar took the big one and everything?"

"He's…" Dean let out a short gust of air, and stared out the windows, onto the gray sky and stout buildings, skyscrapers placed a few blocks further into the clouds. "He's not doing too great. He'll pull through, I'm sure. He's a strong guy, capable. Just doesn't put him in a great place, you know? It was like losing his brother."

Benny was silent for a moment, following Dean's gaze until he was staring into the distance himself. "My condolences to him, then. Balthazar was second hand knowledge for me but, from what I know of him, he seemed like a decent man. Never bit off more than he could chew, tended to keep things more on the business side, you know, good – as good as you can be with a job like this."

"Yeah, that's what I told him that morning. One of the worst moments of hindsight I've ever had. Can't imagine how bad his friend must feel; getting Balthazar's last words through me."

"At least he has you," Benny supplied, after a moment. Dean looked back to him and flexed his fingers, relishing in the feel of blood running through them; muscles bending and skin pulling in the reaffirmation that yes, _he_ was alive, even if everyone else seemed like dust, or on their way.

"So, what did you find about the Bergen massacre, in those files the officers gave you?"

"Just a list of the dead, the two guys gone, and the basic series of events. So far as they could tell, sometime around nine thirty a talking head from both parties waltzed into the meeting spot, something about which docks to use and when for all their imports, if I'm remembering right," Benny almost always was, of course. "And not fifteen minutes later things aren't going so swell anymore, one side brought back up, the other side did, too, and sometime before ten thirty the men inside were dead, cops driving up to the warehouse, all the living suspects cleared out.

"They found a few pieces of evidence; some of the corpses had bits of clothes or buttons in their hands from where the fighting got too close for guns; most of them had been bashed in the head before getting shot, it seemed. An awful, bloody jumble there; none of them died well – oh, three of the guys seemed to just get it in the chest and go down easy, Balthazar was one of them. Probably the first to go. He had somebody's bloody handkerchief over his face when we got in. It might have been some friendly fire on the wrong side or someone feeling remorse, since no one else got the same treatment. They got the shell casings, too. Listed some of the guns that the shells came from; some signet rings and teeth were found lying around, too – the pictures of that the police took were too bad to put in the newspaper, and you know the sort of stuff that gets through these days."

Dean was nodding absently at the bizarre, grotesque findings. "A handkerchief?" he inquired, filing away all the information he had just been told. "Like a woman's handkerchief? A favor or something?"

"No, well, it was embroidered, white with trim, according to the pictures; good quality, might have been imported. It had _D.W._ inscribed on it, but there was a confirmed Dmitry Woden that had been there, too, so it had to have been his."

Dean slowly turned his head to the side. "Did you say Dmitry Woden?"

"Yes, they found a ring that belonged to him – so even if everyone who had been there that night is being quiet, we knew he'd been there – we put him down as one of the missing. It worked out fine, since a few days later his wife had come into the office to file a missing person's report."

"Any idea where he went?"

"Some open ground in Queens or into the east side bay, if I had to guess." Dean nodded, slowly. "Why? Did you know him, too?"

"No, no, I just… heard about him once. Thought I did at least. I could've been mistaken."

"You don't look like you are."

Dean bit the inside of his cheek for a moment, to distract his mind from going to unwanted places. He'd always said that most Russian guys got the same sort of names, anyway – a Dmitry? Sure. The Woden was an odd instance, but the city was big enough – or could Castiel have been mistaken when he told him about the man who delivered the news? Or had he simply misheard? He felt something inside him shift, pieces falling through mental cracks, and he shoved the thought to the side; _this wasn't the time_. "But you said this thing, that handkerchief Balthazar had on him, it was fancy, right? Like a high class thing?"

"Well, yeah,"

"And the Woden guy was gone anyway, too. So what person takes a dead man's handkerchief and puts it on another dead guy; one who probably has some cloth of his own to use?" Benny shrugged.

"It's all just the facts – or, at least, what the police said were the facts. It's all a bit strange but –"

"What color was the trim did you say? White and what?" Benny blinked at the interruption; their conversation hadn't been anywhere near light hearted, but neither of them adopted a rushed air around the other, either. Dean supposed they were used to rushing around in other places, here, well, here they could afford to go slow. He felt his face sharpen as he leaned forward in the chair, waiting for an answer.

"The report didn't say – it didn't seem important or anything. Black or red, probably, that's how it usually goes with white handkerchiefs. Does it matter?"

"That's a good question," Dean said. "I don't know." He drained his glass once more and slapped it on the table with little finesse. The chair sank as he did, taking his weight and cradling him; he could fall asleep like this, except his stomach was on fire and his mind wouldn't close in on any one subject. He shut his eyes, pressing the heel of his hands into the sockets. He wouldn't think about it – he couldn't even dream… it was most likely an accident, bad aim – through the heart, but still. Dean let out a breath through his mouth and the scent of the liquor, warm and sweet, sent his mind reeling back to stained shirts, lilac rosewater, tousled sheets and the blue of the bottled moonshine and blue of that woman at Sam's wedding forever ago who he never remembered except for momentary guilt and the most important blue he'd ever known and he couldn't quite tell if he wanted to drain the rest of that damned jug next to him or send it crashing down into his skull – whichever one would get him to stop thinking what he was the fastest though. Just – _please _, he thought to himself, running his hands up, off his face and through his hair.

"Dean?" Benny said, his tone was concerned enough to make him wonder if this was the other's first time calling his name since the sense of anxiety rolled down on him like some sickening wave.

"I'm here," he said, eyes still shut. "I'm just… just – haven't been staying out of as much trouble as I thought."

"Need a refill?"

"How much longer till I won't feel my legs?"

"Well if you've been dry for as long as I think, not too much more." He heard the sound of liquid filling his cup. "So, this trouble you're in? Is it the personal or professional stuff?"

"Both, but –" Or maybe just one, he figured, mind lurching at the thought. "But the personal one's too much of a skeleton in the closet for even my brother right now, and the professional one doesn't seem that much better."

"Yeah?" Benny said, neutrally. But Dean already knew he was disappointed. Not enough to coerce Dean into sharing, but apparent so that he could tell, even with his eyes closed and his head swimming.

"But when's that stopped either of us before, right?" Dean said, forcing himself to sit up again so that he could look Benny in the eye. "How many visitors from Lucifer do you get? His workers, I mean."  
>"Oh, not too many. Although if we're on that subject Adam came by not long after I got back<strong>,<strong> your half brother. You two still talk, right?"

"Yeah, we do." Even if he hadn't seen Adam for months, that was on his own instruction. "What did he want?"

"Some pertinent gossip; has to impress his boss or something," He shrugged. "I just gave him some names of a couple of smugglers I know that switched over to Crowley, or were planning to. I didn't want things getting too close to your line of work."

"Thanks. Appreciate it," Dean muttered, wondering if he could afford to ask Benny to stay silent on someone else – but he had already made fun of him for knowing Balthazar; not harshly, of course, he was hardly the sort to judge things subjective as race – he was too worldly, Dean figured. Benny was one more for facts and usefulness, and if he had some close comrades that were _literally_ comrades, well, he'd be shocked if he _didn't_. But any connection with the Novak family – that wouldn't lead to anything good. It's not like they did anything besides get their own neighborhood rumors around, and maybe Castiel had always known a bit more than he should have, from attentive observation of passersby and maybe conversing with Balthazar and his friends and watching multiple newspapers at once, but he wasn't nearly as wise to it all like Benny was; he could make some connections, of course, see things that Dean might not always, but Benny knew how to connect all the crime of the city like they were pieces of thread to a cloth; compared to what he could dig up for Adam, Castiel was nothing, he was an unknown. He was safe – _wasn't he?_ Dean clenched his jaw tight at the thought until he swore his teeth cracked and squeaked from the pressure.

"And, look," he started again, "I can't tell you everything. Don't make me; I already know how bad of an idea this is."

"Alright, you have my word."

Dean sucked in a breath, held it until his chest went taut. "Remember that you said how Crowley's been offing a lot of men in the past few months?"

"Yeah,"

"Well, he has this target. A pretty notorious one," He glanced up at the others slanted, almost saddened eyes, like his friend already knew what was coming; could already smell the bad news. "And I'm the gunman."

"Is it safe?"  
>"Hell knows it's not safe. If I don't end up bleeding on the sidewalk or gutted like a fish it'll be the miracle of the century – but don't worry about me. I already struck a deal up and you know Crowley,"<p>

"Can't go back on a deal," Benny said, eyes darting to the side. "Yeah, we're all familiar with his mode of work. So you can't tell me who's on the list?"

"Someone important," Dean supplied. "Someone hard to kill."

"That's more than a few people I know of. Do you have any idea when? Or can you not tell me that, either?"

"No, it's…" Dean wondered, briefly, who Crowley might want killed after Lucifer was gone – he had said once, when he first delivered the news to Dean, that he had plans for expansion – grand ones, it'd seem. Things that would take place after he had left; things he wouldn't need to 'worry about', which was fair – either he'd end up dead or in California, and no one really sent business out that far. "What's your opinion on Crowley?" he said abruptly.

"He's what I'd call a bastard if I weren't in such polite company." Dean just managed to not roll his eyes.

"No but, as someone who runs the business he does."

"Still a bastard – a controlling one; wants his hands on everything, which isn't the best for me. He'd have eyes and ears everywhere if he could, don't you think?"

"Oh, you're right." He was; Crowley wanted control, organized chaos with the reins firmly in his hands. "Look, Benny," He rolled his glass between his palms. "I hate to keep you in the dark, after everything you've done for me –"

"Hey, Dean, you don't owe me anything; you don't have to tell me if you don't, or if you can't."

"I know, I know – just, this is a warning, I guess. The thing I have to do, it'll be around March, April. I can't tell you what's going on but it'll be big. Nothing except for another Great War or the second coming or another stock failure is going to keep this from front page news when it hits, alright? They might even get my real name in the papers," Dean smirked, half heartedly imagining his profile amoung columns of raging yellow journalist rants and narrow sized letters. "But, when it does happen, if I do it, things are going to start changing – big things, I mean, all of it to do with Crowley." He met Benny's gaze again. "So, if that storm hits, it'd be best if you saw yourself out of this city and never looked back. Everyone knows who you are and you're untouchable like that. But if Crowley suddenly becomes the only game in town…"

"I might find myself up the river without a paddle," Benny said lightly. "Or a boat, and maybe my head for good measure, I get it." He nodded. "When or if that time comes, you'll see me cleared out, then. And what about you?"

"I'll be with my brother again in Venice. And we might not have any more decent talks like this."

"Oh, I wouldn't say never – the Panama Canal's still in use last time I checked. Though they've been getting rid of the waterways in that town; damn shame." Dean smiled again, swallowing down the rest of his drink and welcoming in the slow burn it left. "Do you think you'll stop in before all that, though?"

"I owe it to you, don't I?"

"I told you that you don't owe me a thing like that."

"Well, I'll pencil you in anyways. At least one more time, before everything changes for the worse." Dean glanced out the window, saw the overcast sky was getting a navy tint to it, and he rose up onto his feet again so he could get himself out of Benny's flat, back into the cold, and catch a train to Coney Island – except, once he was standing tall, he felt his legs shake a bit, black fuzz coming up against his eyesight. He stumbled slightly, and it was like Benny was chuckling from a mile away and right in his ear all at once.

"Maybe you want some aspirin before you head down."

"Yeah, yeah that might help," Dean said, holding his hands on the arm of the chair. "Trying to kill me."

"No, that's more your hobby. Not my fault you were wrapped up on someone else – or however that story goes – that you turned into an abolitionist on me. Here." Benny's fist was pressed under Dean's chin, and he moved one of his hands up so two white tablets could fall into his palm. "I'll get you some water."

"Thanks," Dean was left staring at the pair of aspirin, and while his head was pounding he scarcely thought that was because of what was in his stomach at the moment, churning unpleasantly through his blood. No, no, it wasn't that, it was the irregularity of the whole thing. Of course Castiel hadn't killed Balthazar – that'd be like him going over, into the kitchen, and shooting Benny through the back of the skull while he got him a drink; people, _sane_ _people_, didn't do a thing like that. If he couldn't trust Castiel about being faithful he could at least trust him about not being a disloyal murderer. That is, if Castiel had ever cheated in the first place – hadn't he settled that weeks ago, when he had demanded where Castiel had gone to and he had looked so frightened, like Dean had suddenly become a different person before him? He glanced up as a high ball full of tap was passed over to him, stray droplets slipping down the surface and getting his fingers wet. He let the liquid wash his mouth out and carry the drugs down. "I needed that."

"Not a problem. So, heading home now? To that friend of yours?"

"No. Well, yes and no. He's not in at the moment; funeral business to attend and everything. I haven't seen him since…" The vision of Castiel kneeling over a hole in the ground came back and it was almost as hard to shake off as the idea of the handkerchief, or the stained shirt he had found months ago. Much too personal for Benny or Sam, anywhere outside his own head. "…He told me that Balthazar got killed." He drained the rest of the water as an afterthought, tasting what was probably the imagined bitter residue of the tablets. "You know, before that big thing I have to do, Crowley's got one more job for me."

"Besides Arturi?"

"He wants it done before the week is out. Arturi's tomorrow, and this is for Thursday." And then what? That would mark a week from Balthazar's death, and Castiel might be home, and it was a terrifying idea to toy with.

"Not another murder? I know Crowley's a bit goal oriented but he's wasting your potential if he's just sending you off to shoot at things." Dean tilted his head at the compliment – it was a compliment, coming from Benny.

"Just a little trick – the pills reminded me – do you know anyone who can lend me some ounces of Nitroglycerin?"

"I'm guessing this isn't for medical purposes?" Dean raised his eyebrows, silently prompting further comment. "Yeah, know a business man in Canadian Industries Limited up north. They made tons of that stuff during the War, still do, a bit – I think I can get him to send me a package. It's a trek of course, but you don't send a boat up to the border every day; I'm sure I can think up a few other people to telegraph in half a week's time to make it worth my wild."

"I'd appreciate that, if you could. Let me know if that doesn't work, I'll think of something else." Dean straightened up and didn't feel his muscles quiver this time, luckily enough.

"Mind telling me what all this is for? If you can, of course." Benny handed Dean the dark bag, which he took gingerly and held with both hands.

"Crowley figured out where Meg Masters set up camp," Dean said with a turn of his shoulder, glad that he could at least divulge this to his friend. "She's doing pretty well at the moment, and he's not too fond of this new car she has."

**xxxx**

Dean had learned that you could be anywhere at any time, if you convinced everyone else that it was where you belonged.

The lobby of the Hotel Pennsylvania touched back on that brightly-lit era of prosperity he had prattled around in for a few years and was then forced to leave. Coming inside was like sneaking back into the Garden of Eden; white globes of light were strung around Roman-style pillars, circles of couches and chairs were set up on carpets, the tiles reflected his face every time he glanced down, and it took him a moment to decipher which direction of the sprawling dimensions of the lobby he should head in to get to the proper front desk. In a place like this, the Depression didn't exist.

"Package for a Mr. Arturi, room twenty-seventeen?" he said, leaning against a counter where a similarly dressed man was talking to a receptionist. The newsboy cap tugged just above Dean's forehead, leaving his eyes clear but still adding an innocent shadow over his face. He had picked up a herringbone patterned vest along with the matching hat – it was what he might have worn regularly, if he was simultaneously poorer and younger, though he had used a straight-razor that morning and didn't have a hard time looking around twenty-three. He had even fetched a sack to walk around with, bursting with what everyone else assumed was mail.

"He ordered something?" the second, open receptionist asked. He was much older and far better dressed than Dean at the moment. He slid a short, rectangular box across the polished countertops. The parcel had been tied in twine; its return address marked an undistinguished hunting shop not far from Dean's flat that had been closed for three months.

"Mr. Arturi had requested it be hand delivered, sir." He unconsciously tightened his lips at the added suffix, and readjusted the tan messenger bag slung across his chest.

"Alright, take the service elevator." He was handed the box back, and waved to the far left of the lobby. The newsboy he passed gave him an empathetic nod in greeting, which he returned with a smirk. In reality, Arturi's box didn't contain anything except a tightly wrapped paper weight, roughly the same measure of the snub-nosed handgun he stashed in his bag. On top of the decoy item was Benny's forged note.

Arturi's room was nearly the top floor and on the right side of the hallway, almost opposite of where the elevator dropped him off. Dean caught sight of a staircase in the middle of the corridor, between rooms 2010 and 2011. He nudged it open with his hand and, finding that it hadn't been locked, strode on by. He saw no one else in the hallway, and none of the rooms made any noise through the thick, sheetrock-lined walls. But if he had to guess most visitors were here on business or vacation, and in either case they wouldn't be holed up in their rooms in the middle of the afternoon, having plans to attend to and all that jazz. His man didn't have much of anything, though.

He knocked on room 2017 three times, parcel still tucked under his arm.

About half a minute later there was a metallic clicking as the door unlocked and swung open. It was Joseph Arturi, alright, and he was in bad shape.

When Dean had seen him last, over a year ago, he was a thin, blonde man. Not quite in his middle ages, though he had the sort of structure that suggested an early physical decomposition as he got older. Dean just figured that wouldn't happen as fast as it did.

His hair, which had been a rather light yellow if he remembered right, had gone into a silvery mess; it had gotten longer too, not in a deliberate way like his brother's, but like he couldn't force himself down to a barber for the past two months. He'd gotten fatter, more like a stress-related bulge on his stomach than one that came with food, his limbs remaining stick like. He slouched in the doorway in wrinkled lounging clothes, tobacco powder dusting a spot on the suit fabric on his sternum.

"What is it?" he said, eyeing Dean's shadowed face, then the box in his hand. "I don't want whatever you're selling."

Dean smiled, or tried to. His mouth moved into a wide bow but his eyes, he felt, didn't change at all, though under the brim of his hat it'd be hard to tell. "No, this is a delivery for you. Everything's been taken care of, no selling necessary." Dean handed over the box, though Arturi hadn't moved from the doorway, and didn't raise his hands up. "It just has to be signed for."

The other man glared down at the package – the small writing of the address just close enough to make out. "How the hell did a hunting store get my address?"  
>Dean shrugged. "Beats me, sir. I'm just the messenger."<p>

"Deliverer, you mean," Arturi grumbled, like he was talking to himself. Dean tried to hold off a scowl.

"Do you want it or not?"

"…You said it's been paid for?" Arturi's blurry eyes went wide and expectant; hungry, almost.

"You just have to sign for it." Of course, it didn't matter if Arturi took the box or not, but it'd be easier if the façade played out for as long as possible.

Finally the other man took the parcel from Dean's hand. Pulling it into himself, he slouched forward, like a deflated balloon. "Got a form?"

"Yes, right in here…" Dean rifled around in his bag, started to show a paper with text on it, while his other hand went to the shell of his ear. "Oh, shit, sorry. I think I lost my pen you, uh," He rose up on the front of his feet to peer over Arturi's head in mock curiosity. "You wouldn't happen to have one?" Arturi wrinkled his nose a bit, disgusted that he'd let a run of the mill courier into his rooms. Still, he turned around and grunted towards something in the affirmative. Dean shut the door as he walked inside.

While Arturi stalked further into the room Dean slowly turned the door's bolt into place, locking them inside.

Another lavish setting awaited him there. Dean thought it was funny that this was what a rich man's poor looked like – crystal tumblers on a small wet bar and a suite as big as a house – the carpet was a dark olive, plush enough that the soles of his shoes seemed to sink downward as he went over the threshold. The furniture was a pure white, some arm chairs and drop sofas lining the edges of the main room – city view all the way in the back, and a hallway stretching off to the right, presumably where a bedroom and bathroom would be. On one side of the front room there was a large desk Arturi was carting the package over to. It overlooked a wood-paneled wall; cherry from the color of it. Dean knew better than to sit, but he wandered forward a few paces, watching Arturi dig around his drawers for a pen.

"Now, who'd you say sent me this?"

"I already said I don't know,"

Arturi looked surprised for a moment, glanced up at Dean, and then nodded, slowly. "Right, right, I must have… forgotten."

"Did you forget maybe that you ordered something?"

"Only one way to find out," Arturi slid the pen over to Dean's side of the desk while he fiddled with the twine and small bit of sealing tape around the address post. Dean watched him open it. His hands moved slowly, might have shook a bit if Dean was close enough to tell that sort of detail. It was quite a tell, he thought, trying not to twist his mouth up.

Arturi seemed to have forgotten Dean was even standing in the room with him. It wasn't until he was sliding the box's top open and running the fingers around the envelope that Dean snapped to attention; even if Arturi was treating him as an invisible servant or was that quick to forget, Dean's eyes tracked his movements as he grasped at a letter opener on his desk and got the stationary free with a quick tear.

Artrui's eyes scanned over the page, and Dean felt a thrum of twisted adrenaline work its way up his spine, down into his fingers and calves, heating up his face. His target's forehead crumpled low in an aggravated stare, his jowls conjuring as a scowl formed.

"What is this?" he asked, scanning the note, his lips dragged down in an open mouth snarl. He glanced up, around, and his eyes caught on Dean once more; his shoulders jerked, and he waved the paper out at Dean. "What the _hell_ is this, kid? Some sort of joke?"

"No, I don't think so, sir," Dean said casually, opening his bag up. It fell to the ground, as an aside thought, that small gun now in his hand. Arturi's gaze locked on it.

He sputtered for a moment before getting out; "Who sent you?" his voice still gruff and demanding even as he scrambled backwards, Dean following in a prowling saunter just a few feet away. Arturi caught sight of the phone on his desk, lunged for it, and managed to get it off the receiver before Dean barreled into him from the front, sliding against the desk and nearly denting his hip into the corner of the wood. His hat flew off somewhere in the rush and he pushed Arturi onto the other side of the barrier until he flopped down ungracefully onto the stationary chair there. It spun and tipped at the sudden shove of weight, and the disorientation allowed Dean the chance to hop the rest of the way across the desk and up against Artui's form, one knee hauled up between his legs for leverage.

Arturi floundered this way and that in a panic. "Don't touch me, you son of a bitch – help! Somebody get him – _help_!" While Dean was faster, Arturi's size made it easier for him to thrash forward and backwards, nearly worming his way out of the chair with every motion. Dean had to be careful about this: He couldn't knock the guy out or choke him, or any of the usual stuff; it would make it obvious that his cause of death wasn't by his own hand. Dean worked his fist below the waist and punched, as hard as he could with the limited momentum. From the pained squawk Arturi let forth, he guessed that he had hit the kidneys fine. He worked in another hit that sent the two of them jolting violently in the chair, and Dean scrabbled for his right leg to stand him steady while he worked the pistol along the side of Arturi's face.

The man started thrashing again – nearly knocked the goddamn gun out of Dean's hand twice before Dean could pin one of his arms down. Arturi's other hand was stuck tight around his wrist, pulling the revolver down and away as Dean urged it right under Arturi's throat.

"Name your price," he gasped out, desperation taking hold as the butt of the gun nicked Arturi's jaw line and sent his body wriggling again – Dean could feel his stomach move against his thigh, he could smell the sweat coming from the back of his neck. "Who–whoever's got you, I can pay you more."

"You don't have anything," Dean growled.

"No, no, I have a house – down in the Outer Banks. Under a different name that no one knows – it's still mine. I still have stocks now –"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean drawled, pressing the weapon forward. "I'll let Crowley know."

Arturi's eyes gleamed with something other than fear for a moment, and he shoved the hand he still had on the pistol not down in surrender, but forward, towards Dean's throat.

Dean swallowed hard, pushed back towards Arturi – he didn't think he was about to do a muscle test to save his own life, but, he moved his shoulder, glad that it was easier for him to lean down than for Arturi to go at him.

"That bastard sent you?" he asked, gun nearly at angle with Dean's nose, and he heaved a breath and jolted the hold, so the barrel was eyeing up the ceiling instead of either of them. For a moment, just a moment, Arturi seemed to hesitate, possibly in remembrance of a man that he had worked with – someone allegedly close enough to get introduced to Lucifer's killer last summer. "He wants me gone after everything I –" He stopped, stared up at Dean's face. Without his hat he was the same man that Arturi had seen in the Capitol Hotel a long time ago. "You're Dean Winchester," he said, and Dean pressed the gun into the underside of Arturi's mouth, hard enough to bruise.

"The one and only," he said, ignoring the way Arturi's limbs began to flail again with newfound energy, the way his arm was trying to tug Dean's hand away with the strength of a madman.

He pulled the trigger and the struggling stopped.

Dean stepped awkwardly away from the chair, Arturi's legs slipping down after him, his arms banging to lie at their sides. He walked back to the messenger bag, pulled out a cloth, and wiped the gun down. He briefly wrapped Artrui's fingers around the hand of the gun before setting it just below Arturi's right hand, the dead man's digits so close Dean half expected him to pick the pistol up and shoot him while his back was turned, but he pushed past that and began to clear up the stray papers around the desk that had gotten shuffled and thrown to the floor during the fight; he wiped down a surface or two he might have touched, and, removing the paper weight from its box, he used it to hold down Arturi's suicide note, nicely framed in the middle of his desk.

As a precaution, he checked some the table's drawers to make sure Arturi wasn't already hiding a weapon. Other than his footfalls on the carpet – careful to remain clear of the blood drops lest some stray flashbulb catch his shoe print – there wasn't a sound. No worried neighbors shouting for help, no police sirens at the window, nothing but Dean and a corpse.

The first thing you noticed about death was the silence. Dean blinked down at Arturi, cloth still wrung in his hands. The bullet hole in the front oozed small trickles of blood down his thick neck, onto his collar, and while the caliber wasn't especially high it left enough of a hole in his skull to splatter part of the floor and most of the chair in red – he even though he saw a miniscule chunk of discolored bone sitting in his whitened hair. Arturi's eyes were still fixed right at him, mouth slack and sitting half out of the seat. Dean could imagine the reporters coming by in an hour, a week, snapping up pictures and crying garbled directions towards one another about the man's death, or what his death represented in their papers, their stories – but the man himself was silent, just like a painting or a piece of clothing; strictly a conversation piece like any other dead person.

He hated it – Arturi needed to die, a lot of people needed to die – but the silence afterwards always got to him, the way that absence followed the dead from now to the ground to the end of time; it hung in the air, foreboding and scary. There was no better place – no peacefulness in death. Everything was vacated, and tranquility was just a pretty way of saying there was no damn thing left to anything anymore. If he was a killer, evil to some, at least the tribute of reluctant could be applied, and Dean had to take solace in the idea that most of the time, he regretted his work. He did it well and got it over with and he would hold out until he left the East Coast forever, and then he could stop, and then he could rest, but for now that thought was the best thing holding him up.

Dean wiped his hand across his forehead and turned away from Arturi's body, going back to the front door.

Before passing out he scrutinized his reflection in the mirror – a dot of blood had smeared down his cheek and against his chin, which he quickly wiped off, copper and sweat sticking to him anyway. A few dots hit his sleeve so he rolled them up, though other than that he had gotten off rather presentable.

He couldn't quite think of another occasion he'd wear the vest out; he could ask Castiel if he wanted it, the next time he saw him.

Dean shuttered, shoulders shaking as he bent down to put his newsboy cap back in place and his bag across his shoulders again. He wiped down the doorknobs on the entrance before relocking the door and sealing the room up, tucking his cloth in to his back pocket. He didn't want to think of Castiel wearing the clothes he'd killed a man in – maybe he ought to just burn the whole ensemble.

Never mind that he had no problem making Castiel fix the clothes he had killed Doctor Romano in, because that was eons ago, even if that man's name kept coming up, guilt soon after clinging to him just as strongly as he had to the doctor when he was alive. He coughed into his hand at the idea of the man.

But in all honesty he was trying not to think about Castiel – not because he didn't want to, but placing him so soon after a murder seemed like a pollutant; Castiel wasn't some innocent bystander, he probably wouldn't have cared too much about Arturi anyway, but somehow, putting him in the context of this work, it was asking for trouble.

Dean went past the stairs, deciding he didn't need them after all, and took the elevator down.

The desk clerk eyed him as he left, and he gave a polite wave, a bright smile – the man still couldn't get a clear look of his face with his hat on, anyway. He walked back out of the hotel with one hand on the bag strap, another in the back pocket of his trousers, touching the dirtied cloth there.

As the cold street air hit him, he thought about handkerchiefs. Of course having a man named Woden go missing and have a cloth that nice, and whoever had thought to put that on Balthazar's face? It seemed like a rather systematic gesture, more dressed up than closing their eyes or anything, though he imagined that everyone who had been in the warehouse that night had some odd cultural traditions to maintain.

It didn't mean that it all made perfect sense, though.

He settled it in his mind – the one thing he had to do to confirm its truth was to find his own handkerchief that Castiel had given him. He half envisioned it on his trip home, where it would be folded up safely in one of his drawers, like every other time he had needed it to dress up.

Because of course it would be there, he told himself, spotting his apartment building and unlocking the front door, bounding up the stairs – those cloths were always there and he hardly knew why he was bothering looking for them now since he had staved off it when Benny had told him and he had managed just fine through the morning but here he was, getting into his unlocked flat and pulling open his dresser drawer and pushing past paired up socks, mixing up his and Castiel's in his search as he worked his way past a box of cuff links and tie pins and of course it would be there because it was always –

Except that it wasn't.

Dean flipped through the folded material once, twice, three times for good measure. He saw the faded, not-so-white anymore handkerchiefs he used and a few nicer ones he had gotten, plus the red one, and the blue Castiel had given him for his birthday, stuffed at the very bottom as if to keep them safe.

But the white one was missing.

Dean slowly pushed the drawer closed again, resolving to himself that it didn't matter, not really. Of course it was just some odd coincidence and he might have misplaced the damn thing anyway, and while his mind was completely on track with that thought his pulse got heavy enough to drag him down and push the air out of his lungs. It was like all the times someone had threatened him and he thought he might have trouble on his hands – real trouble, fatal trouble – he felt scared, that was it. Fear – even if, at the moment, he didn't know why.

**xxxx**

It was seven thirty-five on a Thursday and Dean was trying especially hard not to think about Castiel. Really he was always trying to avoid thinking about Castiel, ever since he had visited Benny a few days ago, ever since he couldn't find a stupid piece of cloth. He tried and tried and sometimes he could make it half a day but something would happen and his mind would wander back like a simpering child who couldn't function on its own, and he hated it.

Because the more he thought about Castiel, the more questions he had – none of which the other was there to answer.

He actually had gotten to the point where crossing off Crowley's penultimate job for him was excitable; relieving, almost. The early evening was dark and this part of Queens that Meg had stolen away to only acted like a wind tunnel. She had managed to find a lavish enough housing complex to have its own parking garage, making the building protrude upwards on massive, concrete stilts. The barrier to the weather made it easier to start fires, at least. He ducked into the alcove and let the ramp lead him underground, out of the wind.

According to a few of the residents Dean managed to catch walking by, a chauffeur was sent for a 1931 Ford model A car, its exterior the same scarlet as the porter's suit, not much before eight o' clock most nights, who let the car start for several minutes so that the interior was warm enough for passengers.

The cold cement of the garage combined with the windy temperatures of a fast arriving winter made it a nice opportunity. Dean had gotten a packet in the mail that morning along with his newspaper, one with a small glass vial labeled with six grams of Trinitroxypropane – a white, loose powder similar to talcum or… something else an officer wouldn't like to see him carrying around. The bottle had rested on the kitchen counter through the morning, and after working his shift at the garage, he had slipped on a dinner jacket, hidden the chemical in his pocket, and caught an evening train that bridged the boroughs. He managed to find the address Crowley had given him, sense of direction better than most, and he had given the young, lone security guard a twenty dollar bill if he would forget he had seen him wandering inside.

The garage had about forty cars – and yet only thirty rooms above him. He hadn't kept a very serious eye on Meg Masters; she had been a presence, but only that, most of the time. No doubt she was dangerous – would probably stab his eyes out if she could – but their steps never really crossed; the pair of them were too smart to actively seek the other out.

It was possible that Ruby was still with Meg – that boy James had mentioned his faux girlfriend dashing off with a sister. Somewhere in between then and now they might have just made something of a fortune and moved here together. Dean stalked up the rows of cars, all of them large and bright, shining under the low light chandeliers above his head. On one occasion he even saw an occupied back seat – some young couple, both blonde and tan, who might have been about to go out somewhere, or had twitchy, rich parents upstairs. He hurried by them, and hoped they'd peel out or go upstairs soon enough.

Meg's car was almost offensively red. Long, sleek, definitely a new model Ford. He ran his knuckles down the hood of it before popping it open. For a moment, the scent of oil and metal permeated the air and he swore this was just another garage shop – except no one would bring in a car this nice, and this unused. He flipped open his pocket watch and reminded himself to hurry – in ten minutes or less someone on Meg's payroll would be coming by, and he couldn't count on everyone hating their bosses.

The machinery under the hood appeared like metallic gibberish to most people – tight fitting pipes and nozzles that carried liquid or exposed the ending of wires. He uncorked the small vial and sprinkled the powder around the rubberized hoses leading out the top of the engine; some smeared oil helping the flakes to get stuck into the creases there and fuse hard to the metal surface of the engine block. He stepped back, twisting his head in consideration; it was probably no later than 7:45 at this point. He didn't have much nitroglycerin, but you didn't need a lot if you knew where to put it; he knew some guys who had tried to just stuff up a tail pipe like a car was nothing more complicated than a teapot, and while the last time he had done this sort of thing he had just gotten a Molotov together, this method was a bit more dramatic.

Dean glanced around, shut the hood, and put the bottle back into his pocket, feeling the arch of the bottle bump against his ribs as it settled into place. He checked his watch – just 7: 49.

Behind him, he heard a heavy door open, and without thinking his hand plunged further inside his jacket, hands clasping around the handle of a gun.

"Can I help you?" someone, a man said to Dean's back. He opened his mouth slightly, letting a breath deflate out of him, and put his hand back down to his side.

"No, I," he turned his head to the side, back still to whoever had come in, and the other could only see a sliver of his profile as he looked down at Meg's car. "I was just checking this out."

"It's a nice piece of work, isn't it, sir?" Dean glanced back until his eyes strained, and he saw a mix of red and gold – and that sir line? Definitely a chauffeur, though if it was Meg's, he didn't seem hostile.

"Yeah, yeah, completely. I don't mean to uh, breathe too much on it,"

"Luckily I'm not the owner."

"Yeah," Dean huffed. "Luckily. I was just stretching my legs."

"Your legs, sir?" He sounded doubtful, and Dean mentally grasped at something to say.

"I came here to meet with two friends of mine," he said, speaking on autopilot. He pointed to the other end of the lot. "They're in that blue Tudor there."

"The one with the fogged up windows?"

"That's the one. We had reservations for half an hour ago – I think I'd rather take my chances as a walk-in somewhere. Couples, you know?"

"Oh, well, that's a shame. Timing's awfully important, if I say so myself. I'm always sent down here ten to eight for instance, warm up the car. Some people are sensitive to that, I guess." Dean heard him shifting on his feet – or was he drawing a weapon, moving his arm up to shoot him while he was forced to stand facing the other way, or risk being seen later? He was thankful for the hat he was wearing, the Italian cut of his suit that made his shoulders broad and his stance wide; no one would know who he was from the angle the other man was in. If he could just leave, then… "I'm sorry; I was called down _to_ start a car – the very car you were looking at. You understand?"

"Sure, sure," He waved his hand, and made one small step forward. The other didn't say anything, so he took another, and went, "Thanks for listening to me gripe, then. Have a good night!" There were three cars separating them now. Four.

"You too, sir," the other said, Meg's car door opened with a creak that sent Dean almost into a run. Sweat beaded against the brim of his hat but he dared not make a move to wipe it off. His arms were rigid, then on second thought his fingers started to curl and uncurl into fists, before finally he pinned one arm against his side with the other, as if he had been shot right above the elbow and was strutting home despite it. Behind him, a car engine roared.

When he passed by the occupied car, now a little fogged up – he didn't hear anything worse than the usual smacks of mouths together, thank god – he thumped his fist hard against the back window until the girl wiped her hand down the glass, staring crudely at him. He waved, made a pointed gesture to the exit of the garage, and partly it was for show, the other part being the hope that the two of them would actually get going to somewhere a lot safer than here.

When Dean made it outside he sucked in a lungful of crisp, wild air that turned his cheeks pink and made his skin glacial on impact – but he was beyond thankful for it, treated it as if he had a fever and had just gotten a bucket of ice water to dunk into. He turned right, and made his way back to the train station – 7: 56 now. If he was lucky the reports might come out in time for the later evening radio programs – and Crowley would know before he went to bed that Dean had almost finished his business with him. He got a cigarette out to celebrate that things had gone as well as they could, lighting up with some measure of irony. He hoped that the driver would realize before something too terrible happened to him; but Meg was a vengeful sort of girl, used to bidding her time for months on end until she could strike just right – the guy might be dead either way, even if he hadn't done a thing except what he was told. It was undecided if Meg would figure out who the guilty party was before he managed to leave the city – timing was everything, after all – or whatever that worker had said.

Timing _was_ everything.

Dean felt himself slow to a stop on the sidewalk, fuming cigarette partway to his mouth.

With no more to distract him, his mind snapped back to Castiel with a force that almost made him sway on his feet. He started rushing through the crowd again – was it his imagination, or did he hear some alarmed shouts sounding far away from him; did he get the sense of smoke beyond that from his own? But he pressed on without looking back, as he was supposed to do.

His thoughts ran backwards, though, trying to remember.

Because timing _was_ everything, wasn't it? Balthazar had died last Thursday night, and Castiel had come to him and promised a week. Well, wasn't this the seventh day? Would the other man return? Could he finally ask all the things that had been attacking his consciousness whenever he had a moment alone – before he went to bed at night and the moments before he dragged himself out from the blankets every morning, and too many desperate periods in between?

And what, exactly would he ask him? Who Dmitry Woden was, perhaps – that was the thing that stuck out as a glaring flaw; everything else could have been his paranoia or his jealousy – but still, that shirt? What was the meaning of that goddamned white shirt? – but that didn't make a lick of sense. Or the handkerchief that was left behind, for that matter; someone of Castiel's class didn't waltz around with something of an 'imported' level, not unless they were talented enough to make it themselves. Castiel was, but Castiel was exceptional in his job, and while Dean had never made a habit of inspecting where everyone in Brighton Beach got their finer materials worked on, he had a pretty good idea that most of those types didn't have finer materials to begin with – not ones that they would carry to a surprise massacre. The only working man he knew who would have something like that just happened to be the only tailor he knew, as well.

And the only way Castiel could get his hands on a handkerchief with a D and a W sewn on it, well… He shuttered, sucking hard until the fumes were pulled too deep into his lungs and he hacked into his fist for a few seconds, the cigarette falling to the pavement while he rubbed at his throat instead.

He righted himself after a few moments, eyeing a pair of women who had stopped in their own stride, perhaps wondering if he was about to collapse. He gave them a watery smile, but this wasn't a tragic plot point in a love story – his heart wasn't about to give out and he wasn't going to succumb to consumption just yet. He lit another smoke and hurried along, trying to pick up his train of thought in a less shocking manner.

Castiel had spoken to him that night – he had ran over at about a quarter to midnight – he remembered the bewitching, perilous hour and the even more horrific news, coinciding too well for his tastes. Castiel had said that the factory let him out at no later than ten. If he had walked the whole way, then not coming home until nearly midnight might have worked – but he had mentioned a train, hadn't he? One that stopped off closer to his house than Dean's flat.

Dean had to take a train back to Brooklyn anyway, and he was tempted to try and find a schedule to see if that really was true. It was about two miles between the tailor shop and his own place, so it almost seemed to fit. But if Castiel had gotten home by train, well, it wouldn't even been eleven o' clock yet – Castiel had left, right after the Woden – or perhaps not– told him the news. No longer than five minutes, probably. So even if Castiel had taken all his time with walking and listening to other people talk, there was still a good forty minutes of nothing really happening.

And Dean could think of a pretty large amount of things that a guy with a gun could do in forty minutes.

He didn't want to think about this – he honestly would have been much happier if Castiel had hidden that shirt away, if he had never gotten curious – if he hadn't ever let Castiel hear about Crowley's plan, even! If he kept Castiel ignorant then he wouldn't have to wish for a similar dumbness to strike him now. Dean could, he argued, still pretend that nothing was wrong – things would get swept away in time, eventually. He could force himself to look at Castiel the same way. He could avoid the entire thing.

But writing off all the deeds he had done, all the blood he might have dipped his hands in… well, Dean supposed that Balthazar had been ignorant of that, too; unsuspecting, trusting, Castiel's very own beloved childhood friend.

And look where all that had landed him.

Dean ground his teeth tight; no, no, Castiel surely wouldn't think to kill him – well, maybe even that was too much to hope for. Crowley's months old sentiment about Castiel's wit and superior knowledge making him a spy crept in with all his other theories, and _that_ was something straight from a piece of pulp fiction wasn't it? But still, he had to wonder – he had the right to wonder, at least – didn't he? If Castiel had treated all of this as a farce; for money or gain or, well, something.

No, he thought, he couldn't ignore something like this. He should have intervened back in the summer, and maybe then things would have just ended between them on the grounds of the typical domestic cheats. Versus, well, a handful of dead men and a fear of his life. Castiel, for all his gentle appearances, wasn't a sheltered man. There were people he met who were too squeamish, too reserved to hurt another human being. And Castiel was nice, but nice people could do a hell of a lot worse than you'd think.

Dean forced himself into a cross-borough train, huddled into a seat and into terrible, once-hidden suspicions. Just like those reflections after a particular case, this was something he had to do – maybe for his own sake.

But the more he thought on everything the more perturbed he became. Suddenly the most innocuous memories of Castiel became warnings and hazardous foreshadowing in his mind. Even his association with Crowley – his cryptic warnings, Alastair's mysterious death – was that another fault of Castiel's or was that too strange? He recalled the one occasion he had seen the other shoot – a white tree splattered with bog water, a mark in the bleached wood at the height of a man's head – and Castiel had never shown him that newspaper, either, did he? Had never told him of Alastair's demise. He learned it all second hand from his boss for god's sake. Castiel clearly had the ability – in Alastair's case, he even had a motive. An evident one.

By the time Dean had gotten into his own neighborhood he had mentally blamed Castiel for another half dozen crimes; and some seemed too extravagant, too impossible, but Castiel was a man who had always defied usual expectations, wasn't he?

Dean just wished it wasn't in such a terrible way.

The steps of the apartment creaked worryingly with his heavy, angry steps. Nothing short of a personal, revenge-fueled attack could stop him from tracking the other man down himself, just to get a straight answer from the guy for once in his goddamned life, and if it wasn't for the sensitivity of Balthazar's death he would have ridden the extra stops over to the tailor shop himself. Hell, maybe all of the Novaks were in on this jumble – they had seen enough stuff, and killing someone for insurance money wasn't unheard of these days.

The door was unlocked, as usual. Dean shuttered as he turned the handle; what if Castiel really _did_ want to kill him? He was leaving the door open for a murderer the entire time.

Like right now.

Castiel sat in one of the wooden chairs like a magic trick. He was smoking a cigarette, reading a book; it was hardly a singular thing for Dean to see – it hadn't been, at least. But now – now it seemed twisted and sick, and as he closed the door he felt out against his coat for the comforting bump of his pistol.

He wondered, fleetingly, as Castiel looked over to him, what the other had been doing with the revolver he had given over for 'protection'.

Not its assigned purpose, he bet with grim scrutiny.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," Dean offered, as Castiel rose from his seat, sticking the smoke in a small ashtray on the table. He was in Dean's personal space a second later, pressing forward, arms around Dean's middle and nose against the top of his shoulder.

"I said I'd come back – I'm sorry,"

_For what?_ Dean's mind couldn't help but think. "Well," Dean let Castiel hold on for a moment before he nudged him back a few feet. "Good to see you home, I suppose." He swallowed. "So, it's finished then? All that, that memorial business."

"Most of it got taken care of, rather quickly. Balthazar – he didn't have a whole lot." Except for his life – his heart and blood and memories, nothing besides those vital requirements. Dean squinted at Castiel; someone who had seemed full of life in the past, though right now his eyes were flattened and dark. He had remembered the other correctly, hadn't he? And he never seemed the type to snuff out someone else's lights.

_Except for Uriel and Raphael, of course._ "Must be nice to get all of your belongings back, huh?" The room's possessions were part his, part Castiel's – the other's objects collecting dust for the week he was gone.

"I'm glad you didn't shove everything off to one side," Castiel said, some off-kilter smile on his mouth. Maybe he was playing at being sad.

"You were coming back, weren't you?" Dean asked, stepping some paces past Castiel, towards his bureau. He drew in a breath, long and loud to him. "All your stuff's like you left it." He waved a hand to some indiscriminate area; every crevice was filled with the other's belongings at this point, anyway. "It's funny, some of _my_ stuff's gone missing in the week."

"Oh, really?" He heard Castiel step closer to him, and Dean eased the top drawer open, staring at a mix of argyle socks and crumpled odds and ends.

"It was my fault I guess, left the door unlocked in case you wandered back." He glanced over his shoulder where Castiel was lurking at a polite distance, not as observant as Dean was but not completely settled, either. His eyes swept from the drawer to Dean's face. "Whatever happened to class, you know? Can't trust anybody these days."

"What did they take?"

"Nothing much, one of the handkerchiefs you gave me, the white one? But nothing I'd care about, nothing I'll miss." Castiel's face was impassive. "Or, I don't know," he said, trying to change the angle. "I've been out a lot – you know that."

"Where else?"

"A friend of mind. Informant type. Crowley had some work for me that I needed help for."

"And how'd that turn out?" Dean leaned back against the dresser, sliding the drawer closed as his back moved into it.

"Oh, everything went off as fine as it could. Benny, he's a decent guy, knows a little about everyone, everything. No matter how recent or how… little of it shows in the papers." He tilted his head, squinting, and Castiel nearly mirrored the expression, playing dumb to an impressive extent – it almost made Dean want to turn back and be normal but, no, the only way to do this thing was to go through it, he'd decided that a thousand times over in his head, and he was speaking before he hardly registered the noise from his own mouth: "Funniest thing, that guy you told me about last week, Dmitry Woden? He was reported at Bergen just like you said – except he went missing, and his wife followed up with a police report a few days afterward."

Castiel's face was a slow transformation. He pursed his lips, as if puzzled, tempted to say what Dean was talking about, but maybe he realized that Dean wasn't stupid – not like anyone else he had fooled. So his eyes grew wide again and his mouth drew flat along with his brows; a paled, grave expression painted on his face. He started backward for a moment, like he couldn't risk being so close to Dean.

"What?" he finally sputtered out.

"You heard me," Dean said, pushing himself off from the dresser. "And he told me some other things, peculiar things. Like how one of the dead guys in the warehouse had a handkerchief over his face – or how Alastair's death wasn't an inside job like everyone's saying. A lot of real funny stuff, Cas."

"And you're saying…" Castiel licked his lips, struggling to gain purchase on such tumultuous grounds. "You're saying that I – I had a part in this? That I lied about, about Bergen – that I was the one who got Alastair –?"

"And that's just the small of it. I can think of some other things you did."

"I _did_? As in you're sure? Like you can prove it?" Castiel spoke cautiously, still teetering on the edge of if Dean was telling the truth.

"I think I have more than just a hunch, if that's what you're suggesting." Dean took one pace, than another, until he had walked part of the way around the other, stationary man, wondering how hard it was for Castiel to not twist his shaking hands together to his chest. He leaned closer, almost like he was going to whisper in Castiel's ear. His voice dragged low, but not in volume. "Like, a few months ago – I found this shirt on the floor. It was real nice, too. Maybe nicer than one you could afford – or one that you'd wear and leave on the ground. It smelt like some sort of flower and it just happened to have this lipstick mark on the collar." He eyed Castiel's profile. "You know if you just wanted to take an easy way out, you didn't have to leave the goddamn hints laying around for me."

"Dean, I –"

"What? Got forced by Crowley into this mess, or did a doll come by and sweep you off your feet? You're not a victim type, Cas. You're too dangerous for that, so you shouldn't pin it down like this was some damn accident. Because you knew, didn't you?" A single blue eye shifted over to him, widened. "You knew when you fished that calling card out of the garbage and crawled over to Crowley, and you knew when you had pinned some girl down and gotten off with her, one way or another."

Castiel inhaled sharply, coming back to himself, he turned and stared at Dean. "You thought I… you thought I was with someone else?"

Dean crossed his arms. "All those times you've said you've been working late – how much of that is playing cops and robbers, and how much is getting someone on their back?"

"You really think I would do that to you?" He squinted a bit, voice going just a tiny bit higher than usual. He reached forward, trying to lay a hand on Dean's shoulder, or against his neck, framed around his cheek, like he'd done a hundred other times. But all Dean saw was a hand reaching for his throat, and he scowled, ducking away until Castiel's hand retreated slowly back down to his side.

"I didn't want to," Dean admitted, voice still rough. "Didn't want to think that you've done a lot of other stuff. But the casing shells at Bergen, the bullets found in Alastair? How much use have you been getting out of that gun I gave you, Cas? One of those weapons you hate so much?" Castiel stiffened at that, enough to make it seem like he wasn't even breathing, as if he himself had died. Somewhere, deep down, Dean might have thought that was a step too far. But still – Castiel had done that. "Do you even feel bad?"

"How can you ask that?" Castiel whispered. He wasn't looking at Dean anymore, but into a blank, empty space in the wall. "Do you think I'm some sort of monster? Do you think I did any of this because I wanted to?"

"We all have our hobbies."

"No, no," Castiel shook his head. "You wish it was that way. It'd be easier, wouldn't it? If I was just crazy – if I was just some, someone who murdered in cold blood." He looked down at Dean's outfit, right around his hip. "If you were going to shoot me through, it'd be easier, wouldn't it? That's what you were thinking, right – why you can't touch me. You think I'll kill you." His eyes briefly moved up to look into Dean's; it was hard to grasp in the spare moment he saw them head on, but he was torn up on the inside, the blue of his eyes had gone shimmery and pale; in the lamp light, it was almost as if they were filled with tears, but Dean doubted Castiel had the ability to cry at this. "Don't you get it? I didn't seek out Crowley because I wanted to – because I wanted to… to get rid of Alastair or anything like that."

"So you're admitting that, then. Was I right about everything else, too? The girl, Bergen, Woden?"

Castiel hesitated a moment, but carried on like Dean hadn't said anything. "You have to know I did this for you. All of it. Every horrible moment."

Dean felt a wash of embarrassment boil through him. "Last time I checked, I was the last guy who needed help."

Castiel twisted his mouth up, and he touched his fingers to his lips, as if hardly believing such an ugly expression could fall onto his face. "You know Balthazar used to say that to me a lot. When I warned him to be careful."

"You're not going to shoot me, too, are you?" Dean grumbled as an afterthought, surprised he had avoided the other's name for so long.

"I did all of this because of you!" Castiel ground out, words biting against his mouth as he spit them out. "I went to Crowley and said that I wanted to work at your debt. I lied, I went behind your back on that because you would've gotten mad either way." He sucked in a breath, and stared at Dean again. This time he had steeled himself, and he looked angry. "But Balthazar was never supposed to get hurt – and I would never kill you, or cheat on you, or hurt you like that. Not even if I was forced to. It goes against everything else we've done. So why can't you believe me? Why can't you believe me when I tell you that?"

"Maybe because you've spent the last couple of months lying to my face." Castiel admitted it, reason and motive shot to hell. Because now he knew – he knew he was right, and every other critical thought poured out without hesitation. "You know I could've sent you out when Crowley came here? He wanted you gone, but I made you stay because I thought you deserved to hear it all firsthand – I said that you wouldn't do anything you weren't supposed to. Now look what's happened."

Castiel held his reply for a few seconds. "Most of it wasn't even that bad," he murmured, defeated in tone.

"Have you read the papers – have you seen the reports, about the massacre in Bergen, about how they found a gang leader mutilated and stuffed in a house?"

"You think I haven't? You think I've thought about anything else? As if I haven't spent every spare moment flipping through the papers or wondering if someone was going to realize… It wasn't just me who was at that warehouse, you know. I wasn't the only one pulling the trigger. And – and Alastair… it wasn't like I was pushing syringes off to school children, Dean. Alastair was, Alastair was…"

"Don't think you have the right to tell me how that bastard was."

Castiel nodded slightly in concession. He reeled himself in again, just enough to make Dean wonder if he had forced himself to cry at Balthazar's grave. "Are you upset you weren't the one to kill him? That you couldn't settle things? You've said you'd do him in if you could."

"I'm upset that you killed someone. I thought you didn't want to do that sort of thing anymore."

"They were bad people," Castiel said. Dean wondered who _they_ were – had Castiel gotten others that even Dean was unaware of? Or was it other things he had been up to, not just murders, but scams and smuggling, perhaps. He might have done a lot of things, for much too long – things Dean couldn't even fathom, and Castiel had the nerve to mock up his innocence, his empathetic nature to him when not twenty minutes later he could have been shoving an ice pick through the back of some screamer's neck, and it made his hands cramp up, his legs twitch so bad he wanted Castiel angry and physical again so that maybe he could actually show him what it was like to be in this sort of life. But Castiel carried on, as oblivious to Dean as Dean had been to him. "The things I did weren't decent or humane but, well, if anyone deserved the type of ending they got, wouldn't it be them?"

"Did Doctor Romano deserve what he got?" Dean blurted out, almost regretful he had said that. It had been a dirty secret, one that wasn't deemed as awful as Castiel's because it had happened ages ago, and no one but him had full extent of the guilt, not even his brother got more of a hint. But he said his name for the first time in ages, instead of just in his mind, and it was a tangible thing, so much so that Dean felt his back prickle and he swiped a hand down the side of his neck to dispel the feeling that at any moment a set of rotten, water-logged fingers would make their way around his throat and drag him under like a nightmare. "Do you think he should've been shot in the heart and dumped into the bay – was he a bad person?"

Castiel blinked, staring at him with confusion. "You told me he wasn't paying his debts to Lucifer,"

"Yeah, that's what I thought, too. That's what everybody thought. It helped me sleep at night until Crowley had the decency to tell me that he was the best guy to get the drugs and bandages from." Dean worried the inside of his cheek, letting the revelation fall into reality instead of rattling in his own head as it had for the past week. "Doctor Romano was as clean as he seemed. Lucifer just wanted to see if I'd do it. Kill a good guy, I mean. Romano helped your sister and Misha do fine? If it wasn't for him you would've never met me, and I'm the one who tied an eighty pound weight to his feet." Dean was tired of only glancing sideways at Castiel, as close and personal as it was, he had to see, had to get an impact, so her rounded forward again until he was a breadth away from the other man's face. Castiel, still processing the cryptic information, had his lips tight and kept silent; perfect for listening.

"You think you're a decent guy? You think that when you start this sort of thing you're only going to be killing people who deserve it? Where the hell do you get off, thinking you're being a hero in all of this shit? I know – I _know_ the things I do are sick and twisted, and I know the only reason why I'm not another Lucifer or Alastair or Crowley waiting to happen is because I resent them too much and I have my own brother to keep me grounded." He flicked his eyes up and down Castiel's stiff body. "Thought I had you, too, you know. I thought, living how you did? Maybe you'd understand how ugly people are, if I couldn't stop you from liking me for a minute then you'd at least be sharp enough to not get involved in this work. But you couldn't keep your fucking hands off, could you? Now you've gone and ruined yourself more than before – how much innocent blood's on your hands now, Castiel? Uriel, Raphael, Balthazar, bet there's more, isn't there? Way more, even if you won't tell me."

Castiel's mouth moved slightly; tongue over teeth, lips opening and closing, no words, not even noises commenced, and his eyes were distant and blank, too hurt to know what had been struck, and he wandered, lost, for some moments.

"I'm sorry," he said to the floorboards; a note of finality in his voice.

Dean glared at the other man, stepping away. "You think I care? Whether you're sorry or not? Do you think that even matters now that you've gone and ruined everything? We had a plan," Dean ground out.

"_You_ had a plan," Castiel muttered, almost inaudible.

Dean paused, trying to make sure he heard that little protest, and he had. "That you agreed to,"

"Because I knew I wouldn't get another option – you don't let people get in other options; it's all or nothing with you." Castiel sounded strange as he spoke, the way he framed his words was unfamiliar, though not alien entirely. His expression had turned angry, irritated, once more, and Dean suddenly realized that Castiel was being accusatory. Castiel was rarely, if ever, willing to give someone else the blame for an action – fury could be invoked, but if it wasn't Castiel's fault, then there was a strong reason to believe, in his mind, that it wasn't anyone's. The observation was strange enough to Dean that it took him a bit to find his ground.

"Because my idea would've worked," he continued. "Then you stepped in, screwed up as you did, you're best friend's gone and I've got half a mind that you want me dead and why's that – because you wanted to _help_ me? Because you thought that I needed protection?"

"No." Castiel moved forward until there wasn't a foot of space between them. Dean thought for a moment that Castiel was going to hit him – instead he surged his fists forward and held them tight in the material of Dean's shirt, eyes alighted with some sort insulted righteousness, some mangled thought that he was still right. "You're not helpless, Dean. You never were. But you're not invincible. I did all this because you think you are, because you'd never say yes if you knew. Because…" His face grew into a snarl. "Because for _once_ in your goddamn life just accept the fact that someone cares enough that they're willing to fight for you, kill for you, die for you – because they couldn't imagine themselves alive if you weren't. I can't speak for your brother but I can damn sure speak for myself, and there is nothing you can say or do that'll let me just sit by and do nothing, except pray that the next time you walk out that door won't be the last chance I have to see you."

"Sam knew better than to mess with a boss's contract – he wouldn't have done this to me."

"Are you sure? If there was no other way out if this, if it was Sam –"

"Don't you dare," Dean cut in. "What gives you the right to compare my brother to you?" Castiel winced. "And don't even think about saying that we're family, because the last time you threw that word around, you said it meant that you don't hide things from one another. You let them help you."

"I _was_ trying to help you." Castiel insisted.

Dean squinted. "Well, fine job with that, then." He struggled a moment before shoving Castiel's hands off him, and he stepped back for space. "Now you're going to have to find your own connection out west."

"What?"

"I'm saying get out of here, Castiel. Leave." The words were almost unconscious, but not so much that Dean didn't try to stop them. Knowing what he did – he _wanted_ Castiel gone, wanted to erase the mar of his creation from his memories, wanted to delete every second before Doctor Romano's death – sick guilt gone, sick bastard, too, just perfect, just right. If he could do it all over maybe he could trade in Sam and California for the immigrant standing a few feet away from him, some sad look in his eye like he was too stupid to understand right from wrong. "If you want to get out of this place, you're not coming with me." He drew in a breath. "I don't want to see you again." The expression on Castiel's face was almost funny – like he couldn't speak English and was trying to translate Dean's words. "Did you hear me?" he said, voice slightly louder than before. "I don't want you around anymore. I think I've made it pretty clear that I'm trying to get rid of all the worthless, lying bastards in my life." Still Castiel said nothing, did nothing, like he was suspended.

Right before Dean considered throwing a punch his way, Castiel nodded. Just one rough jerk of his head, awkward and disconnected. "Okay," he said, and his voice had gone quiet again – like he was whispering some comment to Dean in the middle of the night, figures pressed together in bed – the thought made him sick. "Okay," Castiel repeated, "I… won't bother you anymore," He stalled a moment, swaying on his feet. He stared up at Dean again, like he was wondering if this was all happening, and, seeing that it was, he slowly turned on his heel, and walked back out of the apartment.

The last thought Dean had before the other man left was that – if dead men walked, they would look exactly like Castiel Novak.

**xxxx **

**A/N: Notes in order: While coincidental meetings are great, there aren't as many large, public cemeteries in New York City as you'd think – at least in Brooklyn. Some churches might have ones on their property, but the closest one to Coney Island that is also a large-scale one is The Washington Cemetery, where Balthazar is buried in. The Vieux Carré is better known as the French Quarter, the oldest neighborhood in New Orleans; it was and is a popular center of the city, and a good place to get homemade booze during Prohibition. Also, guns. Guns are a thing – almost as boring to write about as weddings, matter of fact. While Dean owns a Winchester brand shotgun, that arms company doesn't specialize in small handguns; for that it's more of the Colt Company or Smith and Wesson. The model Dean uses to kill Arturi, and one he keeps on his person, would be the Smith and Wesson Model 30, which is a short, snub-nosed revolver, perfect for hiding in one's suit jackets or pants pocket. The model he had given to Castiel was a Smith and Wesson Model 3, also known as the Russian Model as it was used in great numbers during the Russian revolution. Another revolver, it's a bit bigger and, while out of commission for several years before the start of this story, many fans of the model were able to get the gun specially refurbished and checked into working order, which Dean did. **

**When Dean mentions Bugsy when telling Benny his plan to dress up as a courier to get into Arturi's room, he's referring to Bugsy Seigel, an infamous mafia member who committed a murder when he was younger, in the 1920s, by dressing up as a newsboy in order to get into a tenement complex. Lastly, nitroglycerin is a chemical that tends to be used with explosives as well as heart medication. Its chemical name is Trinitroxypropane, and it sets on fire 122 degrees Fahrenheit, at which it also explodes. This chapter required a lot of research of how exactly to make a car combust – explosions are more movie magic than reality, but a temperamental chemical on a piece of machinery such as your engine block (which can go up to 400 degrees Fahrenheit in several minutes with the engine running) would be enough to start a fire. Interior heating was also a component of cars created during the 1920's using hot coils which were effective to some extent, if not advanced. Granted, I didn't Mythbust this method, though it seems to have a decent chance of working, but I'd discourage anyone from trying to prove me wrong. Also, Benny mentions Canadian Industries Limited – which made large amount of explosives for World War One that used Nitroglycerin. And the Pennsylvania Hotel where Arturi is murdered is a still operating hotel in Manhattan. **

**I'd apologize for the extreme gap between updates but, well, that calls for drawing out boring excuses, and no one needs that. Take solace in the lengthiness of the chapter and, uh, Benny and Dean broing out? Because as you can tell nothing else is redeeming in this chapter it's all just… horrible misery and tears.**


	22. The Wife in the Pillbox Hat

Castiel left on a Thursday, though Dean couldn't sense a change until one entire day after. He wasn't what some would call numb, either – he left everything to his person in a filmy and a subtle suspense, as if his brain couldn't quite detect its absence of usual equilibrium so soon. Dean supposed, bitterly and after the fact, that he had grown too used to complacency; something he must have mistook for happiness.

Still, Saturday came and Dean awoke on the left side of his mattress, eyes creaking open to a dark morning through closed curtains, and for the first time since Castiel shut the door he felt something strong and uncomfortable enough to punch the breath out of his lungs.

Castiel had betrayed him. Dean sat up with the revelation; cradled it close in his chest and hopped out of bed with it, staring along the expanse of the apartment with wide eyes. Castiel had _betrayed_ him, and he still woke up on his half of the bed – no, no, – what _used_ to be his half when it was shared, and he faced the way that, two weeks ago, would have left him staring at Castiel's form, eyes open and aimed at him, while the other man lay there composed.

Castiel had betrayed him, and he couldn't bring himself to react to it? He lived amoung his objects without complaint or notice? Quickly, still in his bed clothes, Dean turned around and shoved Castiel's books off the kitchen counter, the rug, dresser, and bedside counter; set them on one side of the table he didn't use, like the man couldn't do any worse things if only Dean could easily keep a vigil on his belongings.

Still that wasn't enough. Hands flexing, fingers rubbing against each other uneasily, he started forward around the flat: The shoes by the door; a tan overcoat; spare razor; toothbrush, and favored soap all got crammed and balled up together, shoved in the bottom drawer of his wardrobe where dirty vials and rusted memories once sat.

Dean was just about to strip the bed, rub it down with bleach and lye until it smelt as it did coming straight from the factory. Until he couldn't smell Castiel's hair on the pillows, smoke in the threads; the harmless, sweet tang of sweat that came with well-worn objects, different than day clothes because nothing extraneous ever happened in them, or at least not anything bad. It was a relaxed taste – personal; too personal considering what had happened.

Dean stepped back from the bed, arms partway raised to protect himself, before remembering that Castiel wasn't _really_ here, and he turned around instead, mouth shut and clamped over with his hand.

Because this wasn't ending a partnership – as business or as friends – it wasn't even like a divorce or the breaking up of a romantic affair. Castiel was a man – they both were. And that made it utterly, exclusively worse.

As much as he hated to admit it, Castiel was more than what most people were in his esteem – no matter what sex. He wasn't innocuous and he wasn't invisible. He wasn't even nothing because half the apartment was a reminder of him and every thought of him gave way to some feeling, if only disgust or regret or fear.

Dean was a bit too experienced and at least prepared if Castiel planned to do him in with any physical violence. Not to mention that, bound to Crowley as they both were, Castiel was better off to avoid him and let him get rid of – or attempt to off – Lucifer. No, Castiel wouldn't touch him, not in that manner.

But that said nothing of his reputation.

It wouldn't be difficult for rumors to start up – stories of some sort. Benny had already mentioned to him that his tolerance and exposure had diminished impressively, and that was true. Bars and clubs never held the same interest for him as they did a year before – the Capitol Hotel ruined that in some measure, Castiel's reluctance to visit such places in another. He knew the fact that he wasn't in a basement or the back of some restaurant every Saturday wouldn't offend anyone; the guests he vaguely knew from those places didn't miss him or notice his absence except for some occasional emotionless remark, a, "Hey, whatever _did_ happen to Winchester?" before going back to less mindful concerns. But _if_ something slipped, if some reason of absence was passed around, all knowing and anonymous – they would swallow it up, and Dean's life would be finished. Acceptance was gone for his sort, anyway, even amoung the partying crowd. That sort of thing had been sucked back into the top crust lifestyle, and even then things were far too serious nowadays for queer romantics – for the pining Oscar Wilde sorts.

But still, he stepped away from the bed: That he would not touch. It was the damn principle of the thing. If Castiel had a presence in his mind he wouldn't give his possessions the time of day. It was _his_ bed first, after all.

So he turned away from the bed, stripped out of his pajamas, back still to the darkened windows. His drawers had Castiel's clothes in them, too, but he could partially convince himself that they were part of his own collection – their sizes were similar enough.

He dressed mechanically in gray trousers and a slate vest, and forewent breakfast in his own apartment to get out as soon as possible. He locked the door after himself and didn't make eye contact with the other tenants who passed him on the stairwell like smudges fading into the bleakly painted background. Outside, September was a dreadful promise of the winter coming all too quickly. Dry wind swirled past his body, making his eyes water but thankfully expelling the imagined prying gazes from his back. With the out of doors comparison he saw that his room had been nearly too stuffy to bear, and he resolved to get away from such a place.

He started to walk.

**xxxx**

In the absence of anyone Dean's wandering escalated tremendously. If he wasn't in work, at least. For so long he'd had other, more troubling things to occupy his time. But with Crowley's distance until spring and Castiel's mess he had found himself occupied with economic troubles and foreign affairs – things he found in the newspaper. It was almost an exotic experience, a vacation; to be worried about the same things everyone else was worried about, like making the rent or not.

At work he was unfocused. He never nodded off but fell into a faltering state of unconscious movements. It was excusable behavior; most jobs were terribly routine. He had gotten off lucky, in fact, all things considered. He stripped car parts for scrap metal and worked on hooking up harnessing belts into the heavy engines for removal; or digging out the minute and precious pieces of copper wiring and putting them into buckets. He left his jacket and hat on a rack in the back room, and left his pocket watch at home due to the lack of trust he had for his co-workers. He could approximate the time by how black his hands were getting as he dug them into oiled machine parts; soon it was hard to distinguish any other smell on himself other than that and perhaps gasoline.

The rest of the machine shop was dense with smoke and mist – clogged with the exposed, monstrous arms of machines, pulling, dissecting, cleaning, repairing. His job was also special in that he saw nearly every model of car from the inside – learned the layout of each in a hands-on way, of how things fit together and worked or, in most cases, didn't. He'd been partially interested in looking into books on manufacturing and engineering; by this point he supposed he had more than enough field experience, and it left him with a rather large vocabulary of machinery and automobile terms. Though most of the manuals he took from work or began to borrow from nearby libraries were dry enough to bore even Sam to tears, it had a possible beneficial impact – a bit of an edge in automobile related trades – firing was a quick and easy process these days, anyway. The thought of being without a job totally settled into the floor of Dean's thoughts, never quite leaving him alone. It was best to be valuable in any way he could think of, and if he enjoyed cars genuinely then, why not? It was better than whatever any of Castiel's books would have given him, if he could bring himself to do more than give them a glance out of the corner of his eyes these days.

He kept on with his business and settled into some sort of introverted streak – he had hardly made note of who neighbored with him in his apartment, a strange and somewhat awful habit, since he had always gotten cordial greetings whenever he passed a person by in the staircase, especially since the building had started to turn out those quiet bachelor for large families who would take a cramped flat to being out on the street. He forced himself to start to care about these people who shared his roof, his walls – soon he was the only person living by themselves, now, he discovered. Of course he hadn't always been by himself.

Well, maybe.

And that reserved friendliness came in handy once in a while. After a few weeks of tossing around in bed he figured it was time to wash his bed sheets, hygiene the selling factor in this instance. For the longest time he had all his clothes washed at the Novak's tailor shop, but now he was forced to use the machine stored in the basement once again – much older and much more pitiful by comparison. They also didn't have a dryer, so his next door neighbor, some exhausted mother named Mrs. Delphino, offered him her clothesline outside her window, when she saw his pile of clothes dripping water down the corridor.

Some nights he'd get so bored, cooped up with quiet, friendly strangers and tired from work that he would go out and find a juice joint to settle into for a few hours. They weren't anything special, though within a week of doing that he found himself in the presence of old friends – or well, people that knew him. It made him realize how little he had gone out, in the pitful of time between Sam and Jess's departure and now. Even if he went in more for the washed down ale and some background music to drink to, it was nice to have the noise of others to wash over him; brushing his back and nudging his arm and leaning on his shoulder all night, familiar and warm without getting personal. He liked that – he maybe needed it to go on.

Drinking did have the somewhat unfortunate habit of having him wake up late, or take too long getting ready as he stumbled through headaches and pains as he drank what he was used to from ages ago instead what he should take in now. He'd been reprimanded for tardiness once or twice, and perhaps that should have been argument enough to stop , but it merely spurred Dean on to further, later nights where he would complain and rouse other grievances about the worldly injustice of coming to shift at six minutes past instead of at the hour. It was too terrible to conceive, he'd say, partially to the group who had gathered nearby, partly into his cup, it wasn't as if the entire industry was marking down wages per hour every few months, or anything like that. Most of the patrons and fleeting friends agreed with everything that came out of his mouth, which seemed to do more for his pride than anything else, but certainly his own esteem could use some extra fortification, especially with the idea that any day now someone would appear with a pansy rumor or something even more nefarious, if possible.

So he fell into a whole new kind of rut, and from the beginning of September to the near-end of November nothing important happened.

It was the 26th – a Tuesday when, doing a habitual check of his mail slot in the lobby, he found a letter addressed to him in his brother's handwriting. The weight that smashed into him upon discovery was of a different air. He couldn't figure out if it was from the rushed hint of Sam's scrawl or the fact that this envelope was much thinner than normal. It could have been the odd, nearly supernatural premonition he half swore he would get sometimes whenever Sam was concerned; a sense of something monumental occurring. But in any case he doubled up the stairs in a hurry; thumb continuously smoothing over the stamp of his note to reaffirm that it hadn't been lost from his grip.

He unlocked his door, threw the rest of the mail onto the counter while he pulled the knob shut again. He tore through the opening neatly and settled onto the bed, not bothering to kick off his shoes or hang his hat up or any of that nonsense.

He hadn't been mistaken – the letter was short. Only a page, written on cheaper stationary than normal, and with a pencil instead of Sam's typical preference for ink. The header was '_To Dean'_; normal enough, the letters still slanted to suggest a bad writing surface or a short time to take a message. His eyes tried to scan the entire note at once before he forced himself to absorb the first sentence. _'By the time you read this,'_ Sam wrote, typically foreboding and unnecessarily formal, _'I've already been made a Father.'_

The words were complete gibberish to Dean.

He counted – twelve words – he checked the date – November 16th. He managed to look over the introduction a handful of times; disjointed and blurred and removed from any reality he had ever known. He skipped down to the next paragraph, hoping his brother had thought to make things in clearer words for him there.

_ 'It's a boy – Jess had guessed right. Born perfectly healthy on the fifteenth of this month, 10:48 pm – I waited for the doctor to finish getting a blood sample and for Jess to go to sleep before I could sit down and write this. It's just past two in the morning, now. We'll be able to leave by Tuesday or so; just about everything went fine. We're all okay.'_

Now just _who_ was okay in this situation – Dean flipped the letter over – nothing there. The scope of Sam's message was starting to trickle into his brain like a frigid stream, but he clung to the reminder of the letter with defeatist, half abandoned hope that this was all a misunderstanding.

Hearing about Jess's pregnancy in April had put him into an awful mood. After all, he wouldn't be there to watch her and his brother pull themselves together; his brother was completely left alone without any advice to this sort of thing. Even if Dean himself never had a child, he'd been around several – the most prominent being Sam himself. The idea of being helpless and across the country and unable to do anything made him angry and sick. He had only managed to calm down because Jess still had plenty of time before the delivery. Sam had spent copious amounts of time and paper waxing on and on about his wife's stomach and doctor visits and frugal, well-invested plans they made for a family of three together in Venice, but there was a difference, a remarkable one at that, between buying a carriage and a christening gown and actually having a child.

But it wasn't a burden; Dean refused to treat it as such. He just couldn't believe he wasn't _there_. He wondered if his brother kept the letter brief because he too had been holding out hope that Dean would appear in California right when he could be needed again, and at the failings of that Sam suddenly found he didn't have time for him anymore. It was ridiculous, but it still hurt, and he trailed off on that line of thinking anyway as he read the remaining words:

'_The thing you might be wondering is his name. Jess and I talked about a few and I listed off some of our suggestions to you in September, I think.' _Dean faintly remembered names like Madison or John or something along those lines. Dean had responded back that John would be the most appropriate, unless Jess had someone in her family she wanted to honor. '_We settled on James,' _Sam seemed to slow down and write his son's name fairly carefully, amidst all the borderline chicken scratch. _'Perhaps it's not the most original name, I'll say that, but it fits well with Winchester, and Jess had a grandfather in Jersey by that name – someone who raised her more than her parents ever did – and moreover, it's his now. In that same vein we decided James's middle name to be after yours. I can't imagine a name like James Dean catching on like that – Jess says he looks more like a Jimmy, anyway, but you can decide that for yourself when you see him._

'_James Dean Winchester. It's odd to write that down, now. Even more that I can't tell you to your face, that you aren't here. But don't go blaming yourself for that – you will anyways, but you shouldn't. Don't think that you were wrong for sending Jess and I out here, either. Two years ago this was something I wouldn't even dream about; maybe by spring with you with us I can finally wake up a bit. Jess and I miss you, and hope this finds you well.' _Sam signed his name in scribbling cursive at the bottom of the note, and that was it. No codes, nothing hidden under the stamp or traced lightly into the paper. It all just was: Sam and Jess were now Sam and Jess and James, and they had given their son his name – not their Father's, his, in a precious honorific.

Dean felt sick to his stomach.

The first concept that came to him when he read the word James was another James he knew – admittedly there were several – but the one he knew the most brutally was a young man he had manipulated back in the springtime for Crowley, trying to squeeze any information he had on Ruby, only to toss him to men even worse than he was.

He wondered, frantically, if James Mondale was still in the city, unscarred, functioning, alive, even – he didn't have a shred of an idea – until now, he didn't even care. But now his name was tied up in Sam's life and it wouldn't leave as easily, maybe it would always remain, sticking into the undercurrent of his focus every time he called out for Sam's own son. It sent a violent shudder through him, and when he came back from the spasm, he recognized that old, almost welcome feeling of fire in the pit of his gut. He could only blame himself; wonder ferociously how he had let this happen at all. Originally he would have never needed to do that sort of thing and he never would have met James. If it wasn't for Castiel, he though furiously, standing at the rush of indignant energy – if it wasn't for – he spotted the stacks of books on the table; the ones that weren't his; the invaders into the one piece of possible solace he had left and suddenly without a thought he struck them off the counter with a hard swipe of his hand, Sam's letter crinkling in his fist.

Fitzgerald joined Forster and Chekhov on the floor. Cracked spines of poetry lay on top of the novels and the magazines; all beloved components of Castiel's collection except that Castiel wasn't _here_, and neither was Sam. He only had himself now, Dean knew, and that wasn't nearly enough.

He crammed the letter into his vest and walked to the door, getting out and slamming it roughly behind him, not bothering with the lock because maybe tonight the goddamn tailor or thieves or anyone would come in and take all those books and clothes and tobacco scent far, far away from where he slept and passed so many unbearable hours.

**xxxx**

Dean awoke in darkness, many hours later, his tongue rotting in the back of his mouth. He staggered to his feet and seemed to have left his brain on the pillow for some moments; it returned pounding, spots against his eyes. There was a clock ticking on the bedside table but it took ages for him to catch what the hands and numbers were displaying – Two eighteen. Now.

Morning or afternoon? He stumbled through clothes, the books that were tumbled over – his apartment was ruined to the point where he wondered if someone had broken in and scavenged through it when he had passed out. No more, he morosely promised himself; he couldn't afford to black out completely all the time, and on a week day, too. He wearily gripped the fabrics of the curtains, tearing them open an inch.

It was dark out, raining. The buildings were dripping into the streets. He stared blindly at the skyline and was rewarded with a rumbling of thunder in the distance, too low and far out to aggravate his head, thank god.

He glanced down, saw people on the street. Children, mothers, a vendor on the corner selling fruits. His hands clenched around the curtains.

It was still Wednesday – or Thursday, if it had been at its worst – but it wasn't the weekend, or Friday, or – or a day where he wasn't supposed to be working.

"Shit,"

Dean inched backward, lost his footing, and tumbled onto the floor, in pain with a cationic mental state to match. He rolled onto his side and tried not to throw up.

Last night had been… bad. He let the memories lap into focus again: Sam's letter, the depression, rage to compensate. He smashed Castiel's books to the floor and stormed out, found one of his holes and a few bottles to crawl into. His gaze couldn't focus and he wondered if maybe all the homemade booze made him part blind. He wondered if he could waste away on the floor for a while – for so long that his brother would get tired of waiting and come over during Christmas break one year and pick him up off the floor and take him far, far away, where he wouldn't have to wash blood off his hands every morning and wouldn't listen to anyone except himself and maybe, in California, the sky was a little less blue, and it wouldn't make him want to heave out everything he had inside onto the pavement every single damn time he looked up and found himself throbbing with something that had to be loneliness.

Maybe he started to cry, or cough, he couldn't focus enough on himself as he let himself waste away on the wood. He wasn't going back there, back to the garage. They wouldn't pay him for the few days he came in anyway, and even if they could, he wouldn't take the words management would lash out to him. He couldn't look his own piss-poor reflection in the eye, how could he even drag himself out there, out to his workers, his boss, stand there and apologize because he couldn't hold himself together anymore, he just couldn't?

In the midst of the Depression Dean had lost his job. He stilled and let that sink in, springing with it another pounding headache, another wish to pass on and to not feel a damn thing. He let the reality overcome him; he could end up homeless, maybe, and too close to luxury for the last few years that would cripple him even more. Maybe he'd get some type of fever and waste away on the streets, succumb back into sticking needles into his forearms and the crooks of his elbows because he wouldn't see anyone who would tell him no. He sighed, feeling his lungs rattle against his bones. He had lost his job.

Still, it attacked him with less ferocity than the loss of some other, past things.

**xxxx**

There was still gambling.

On days where he couldn't bring himself to get up and look for proper work, he promised himself to stop at a bar or a club somewhere and play men in cards or some crafty little game the establishment provided otherwise. He tried to refrain from drinking too much then, only to keep his mind sharp. He could pull in twenty, thirty dollars a week on that stint if he tried, and dip into his savings to cover the rent every month. It was a temporary thing, he told himself, all through December and far into January. He let himself recede further; the little dens he spent his time were no longer friendly – they were his workplace now, and he had resigned to grabbing bottles for the nights that he stayed in, thumbing through Sam's letters or some car manuals or nothing at all, letting his eyes fall onto the splattering of Castiel's books on the ground, a bruise from that night sore and unfading. He tried to pick up the books, once, telling himself that he'd have to call on the other to get the damned things out of his apartment – but when he plucked up the corner of an opened, downturned novel he saw a hawk's feather float out of its marked page – still crisp and clean like someone's fingers carefully combed through the bristles every time they stuck their hands on the object.

Dean let the book drop from his hands again, covering the feather and crushing it into the ground. He didn't have the heart to pick anything of Castiel's up again.

Sometime in early December he had gotten a spot in a clothing factory – something for holiday demands he was sure. His job was moving the packaged coats and jackets, ties, gloves, socks, and shirts from the completed piles at the foot of sewing tables and bringing them to the cars and trucks across the factory floor. The room was always densely populated, loud, but persistently cold with the thin windows, and the work floor was always punctuated by coughs and sneezes. Most of the seamstresses were friendly to him, but he passed too many desks too quickly, and couldn't really bring himself into talking to anyone. Sometime after the New Year's he was let go, anyway, with only a little extra salary added to his severely diminished savings pile.

After that the silence crept in; infiltrating his ears with white noise, blocking out any thoughts. It was getting harder to sleep at night and more than once he found himself alone on the streets, hands shoved tightly into his pockets as he wandered down this lonely road to another, staring at the golden windows of apartments, hearing his own footsteps and apathetically fantasizing that he'd get pneumonia from this sooner or later.

It was almost February when he found himself standing, swaying, under a streetlight. The neighborhood looked household but he couldn't read the sign across the way, and with the accumulating snow dusting the road and his shoulders and the window ledges he wasn't totally sure he wasn't imagining the familiarity.

More pressing than that, however, was that it was nine o' clock and there was a grocer who still had his lights on. He crossed the street, leaving footprints in his wake, and peered into the frosted glass, curious about what he might see.

There was a clerk, his age or so, talking with a woman that also seemed vaguely familiar. Figuring it was none of his business, he started to pass on, digging around for his cigarette case and popping it open. There was a single one left, cradled in the elastic case and velvet. Dean left it there, looking guiltily back at the store behind him. He had smoked two before coming up this far; he knew he wasn't going to make it home without another pack safely tucked away.

He sighed; going back and pushing the door open quietly. There were no bells or chimes to alert the pair on the other side of the store, and Dean supposed they didn't know he had come in.

Past the wilted produce, the canned selections of fruits and vegetables, razors, and pulp magazines, there was a large wall of differing packs and loose tobacco. He glanced through them disinterestedly, finding some particular brand of Camels he preferred. As he moved towards the clerk he picked up shreds of conversation.

"…Visiting my Mother's, so once you finish up here we can go back home," Dean paused between aisles, wondering if he ought to buy anything else. He rarely went outside for errands anymore, eating in little cafes or delis instead of at home.

"You know he might get killed one day if he ain't careful." He figured that he might need paper, some more ink – Sam's letters were somewhat brief now, which was something he always apologized for, what with being tired and rushed with Jimmy, not to mention the evening college classes he had started taking in hopes of working for a firm in town.

"It's who he is…" Dean made attempts to accept his reasoning at face value, but couldn't help but look at their past letters to one another and feel an absence. "…Respect me,"

"– Agreed then you wouldn't come here," The man sounded annoyed, Dean thought, coming a little back more to reality. A fight with his wife, perhaps – he was staring at canned fruits; peaches and pineapples. He settled on the latter and peered down several other isles, finding the paper slightly overpriced and the ink a shade of indigo he hated, so he strode up to the front of the store.

"Excuse me," he went. The woman side-eyed him a moment, looked back to the grocer.

"Shop's closed," the man said. His tie was loosened, some strands of his hair stuck out from the way he had slicked it. He was shorter and broader and looked rubbed worn and tempered with the knowledge of it.

"Then you ought to lock the door and turn the lights out, unless you want people coming in," Dean said, handing over the can and cigarettes to the counter.

"Just let him buy those, Charlie please," the woman said, her voice easy again. Dean knew he had heard her voice before – somewhere, a while ago. It was definitely one that wasn't too memorable. Out of the corner of his vision he saw she had placed a hand on the grocer's forearm, leaning closer to him over the counter that he stood behind. She still had on her hat and outdoor coat, leaving the rest of her thoroughly obstructed from Dean. He guessed they had to be married, and yet Dean was sure he had never been to this corner store, or at least had never seen the woman here in the past.

Charlie morosely did what the woman said, wrapping up the purchase in a small paper bag. "That's twenty-one,"

"You can see a picture for twenty-five," Dean muttered, reaching into his pocket.

"Stuff out of season's expensive, even if it's canned," He dropped the coins into the cash register and shut it again. "Now can you get the hell out of my store?"

"Charlie," the woman warned.

"What, you said we'd leave soon as I finished. I'm sure he gets it," The crass implication made Dean frown a bit; not that there was anything wrong with implications of that sort, but he said it in a sneering, disrespectful way that made him want to spit or cuss at the man if it wasn't for the woman there, embarrassed enough at the man for Dean to cause her any more grief.

"Yeah, thanks," he tossed out. He turned to the woman. "You take care now," She blinked, recognizing him as something more than a stranger but nothing more specific than that. He walked out of the store again, silent as he came in.

On the street he looked over this shoulder and continued to peer in at the couple, though their backs were facing the window. The woman, small, made a domineering pose and seemed to get the upper hand in some sort of argument. A moment later she softened, and hefted her weight up, placing her hands firm on the countertop as she reached over and kissed the man, and that struck Dean at his core as completely wrong; so much that he almost dropped his grocery bag and spent a moment fumbling with it, looking up to see that she had dashed out of the store and had put herself in front of him.

"Can I help you?" Dean asked, straightening again.

"I just wanted to apologize for… for that man back in the store. He gets very impatient sometimes." The grocer got out from his station and stalked further back into the shop until Dean could no longer see him.

"He your husband?"

"Well, anyway," she said, as if answering Dean's question. "Just, sorry for asking this but – am I imagining things or do we know one another? Ever since I heard your voice I wondered. Can I ask for your name?"

He shifted in the snow. "Dean Winchester," he said. The woman transformed at his name; shrank a bit. She had on a blue pillbox hat that was trimmed with fur. Suddenly her head seemed to shrink under it, and that ferocious shyness was the thing that charged Dean's memory, filling it with the correct and terrible answer.

"You're Nicole Milligan," Dean said slowly, confirming it to himself. She shrank further. "You're Adam's wife."

Mrs. Milligan was smallish and stout, she always had been. And although her image never fit in with the era's concept of a sought after society girl she _was_ captivating – a mild range of stunning, especially with how you could see the curve of her waistline even through her coats, or her chasing eyes piercing through the brims and veils of her hats. For all the effortless looks, though, she had never garnered much attention from anybody. If she had been grown a few inches more cheerful or woeful, perhaps then others could recall a name to her looks. Dean had only seen her a handful of times, and she was pleasant for politeness's sake, but that was all to her in the way of hospitality and personality

for those she didn't know particularly well. The impression hadn't changed even after Dean began to visit Adam and his family more, and that had been months ago; the color of the Milligan's apartment faded from his memory at the same rate as his half-brother's wife, which was why he hadn't been able to recall her immediately.

Faintly, he remembered her and Adam's wedding. It had been about two years after he and Sam had come into the City – she and Adam were frightfully young; Sam had been just nineteen, and though he couldn't quite remember how old Adam was, it was obviously younger than that. She had been gorgeous then, probably, made up like brides are. He and Sam were given a picture of the newlywed couple, and it had been placed on mantles or side tables or in cupboards, but when Sam and Jess moved Sam had taken the photo with him, and Dean was left without even a cursory glance to keep his memory less fogged.

"Well?" Dean asked roughly. "Don't you think you ought to say something?"

Mrs. Milligan chanced a look back to the store, then seemed to think better of it and merely adjusted her posture. "I'm sure that you've seen enough to draw your own conclusions." She started walking; opposite of the way Dean had come.

"Where are you going?" Dean followed in step behind her, foot prints marking the snow.

"I'm going home," she said, words garbled as she kept her voice at a normal volume and didn't bother to turn back to Dean.

"What about poor Charlie back there? No time for him?"

"Well, you can understand that getting found out by your husband's half brother could make a wet blanket out of things. Catherine can't stay with a sitter forever, anyway.

"Aren't you fickle," Mrs. Milligan paused mid-stride.

"If you're going to be a rat and tell my husband, Mr. Winchester," she muttered icily, "Do it and spare the comments to me." The show of callous esteem made Dean raise his eyebrows at her back, and he stepped next to her.

He should have been ashamed for not just going and telling Adam about her own wife's disloyalty – if the same thing had happened to Sam his reaction would have been at a reflex's pace. And yet he did not move – away from Mrs. Milligan nor anywhere else. The street was a private void around them. It was easy to be brave under such a black, January night. Dean knew firsthand the sort of jobs that could be committed in an atmosphere that left a god's eyes blind from above.

"You know your apartment's back in Fort Hamilton," They were in Flatbush now, he thought, judging by how long he had been walking.

"That was months ago," she said, still not meeting Dean's eye.

"You moved?"

"To Prospect. If you're walking me home you'll have to take the Culver Line with me." It was past nine o' clock and he hadn't seen anyone else on the road since before he walked into the corner store. He was stuck in the conundrum of informing Adam and protecting his lying wife from any other hazard until she got home. Courtesy was the oddest thing, sometimes. Mrs. Milligan's heels sunk slightly into the slush as she picked up her pace again, and he followed with the notion that she might just be planning on running away now that she'd been found out. He could feel a sneer on his face.

"And if I'm just trying to take you to your husband?"

"He's not home," They crossed an empty street together, Dean's hand curled around the paper bag from the store.

"How can you be sure?" he said. Her shoulders slumped for a second.

"Because Adam's never home."

Dean sucked on his cheek, though he wasn't about to be swayed, even if Adam was out doing something, he couldn't have been with another woman, it wasn't in his nature, and absence alone didn't inspire excuses for what Mrs. Milligan was doing. "I guess that explains how you can make time for some other guy all the way down here," he offered, finally.

"I wasn't trying to get noticed." She wrapped her hands tight around the neck of her fur jacket. Her leather gloves were tight and shiny. "Now what are _you_ doing up here?"

"Walking," For the first time she smiled. It wasn't a pretty one. Her teeth were sharply clamped together and her lips parted, seemingly against her own will.

"Well at least have some creativity when you lie to someone!"

"That's true. Nothing else to do, really,"

"Except staying in your apartment. Not freezing to death." Dean's heel caught a scraping of ice as he stepped; not enough to lose his balance but it refueled his hatred of winter effortlessly as he slid. Snow continued to fall and ball up and crunch underfoot. It sat, mostly unmelted on the shoulders of their coats; wetting Dean's hair and Mrs. Milligan's hat.

Distracted by the weather Dean's tone went mild. "Can you tell me why you do it?"

"What, specifically?"

"Is there something about Adam, I mean. Going with someone else like that is good entertainment but,"

"– But when it's happening to you?" she finished, "Or to your brother, I guess,"

"You're acting different, you know," Dean supplied, squinting. "I'm used to you just – standing around. But you're hardly like that, now."

She shrugged in her coat. "All this sinning work gives me some extra confidence." She frowned. "Adam doesn't notice what you've seen in a minute, you know." She didn't talk for another block; Dean thought she might not again. She still looked straight ahead, and it wasn't until she announced that they had reached the train station at Church Avenue that the silence was broken momentarily, and they sat in the car for some minutes next to one another; watching workers and sleepy, well dressed passengers on either end of themselves.

They emerged on Bergen Street and walked southeast for another block before she said, abruptly, "It's loneliness, I guess." Dean, who had one of his new cigarettes halfway to his mouth grunted in surprise at hearing her voice. He turned and saw her slumped over again, huddled and freezing. She looked burdened by surroundings. Dean could excuse his loneliness for calm or drink it away but she apparently could not. There was an ache in her steps, and her head hung low now. "It's hard not having anyone to talk to."

"No friends?" Dean asked, examining his cigarette and trying not to become sympathetic.

"Well they're all much too busy for me. I had some workmates but I don't – I was fired, we don't keep in touch."

"Yeah, well, that's something the two of us have in common."

"There are days where I'm positive I don't talk at all. Days disappear when you're just there, not doing anything, not taking it in." After a moment she muttered snidely, "I'm only telling you this because you're as good as a stranger, you won't care." Dean ignored her tenor, puffing up a small cloud of smoke into the frigid air instead.

"What about that grocer you picked up?"

"He's just a lover. I can't talk to him without him thinking I'm crazy, kicking me out. Besides, he gives me my groceries cheap."

"So if you're not with him because you think you're going to run off with him to Mexico –"

She grunted out a pseudo laugh. "Mr. Winchester, no one cheats on their husbands so that someone else will carry them off to Mexico. That's a dumb cliché with no basis in the real world. Much more likely that you just get… tired of each other, or it ends in some bloody awful mess and it goes to the papers."

"Then why bother?"

"Have you ever been with a… well, a person who couldn't give you what you needed? The money, the time, the attention, the memories?" Dean blinked, slowly. Most of his relationships had ended more or less on the mutual thought that they had never set out to mean anything in the first place. He had rarely had the chance to leave someone because they weren't fulfilling enough. Maybe Cassie, though he attributed that more to the lack of foresight, immaturity. And Castiel?

Castiel had always had time for him, he supposed. Any short falling with him was one of loyalty and – well if he didn't betray him with Crowley it was best to assume he would have broken his trust later on for another twisted opinion of justice. And anyway Mrs. Milligan was certainly not asking for his opinion on men. Castiel didn't count, not in any way.

After all, Mrs. Milligan had been married for years; still young, but even at that age there had to have been some experience garnered. And despite her wedding band and apartment and a child she had found the convenience of solitude enough to stalk out and find renewed, illegal happiness. And what had Castiel given him, anyways? Two years and some memories: Books on the floor of his flat that weren't his; a feather, some smoke, and items he could lie and say that he owned. If he staved off being so offended for his brother you'd think that Castiel's treachery – in the boring domestic sense – would no longer get a rise from him, but he knew he had been leaning away from Mrs. Milligan ever since they started speaking.

"Can Adam not afford to get you new heels every other week now? Is that it?"

"Oh!" She threw her hat onto the icy ground. "I don't care about that!" She was almost shouting, too mad to care much; Dean didn't feel like stopping her, either. "I could be living in a mansion on the coast of Jersey and I wouldn't give a damn about it either way, not if he died trying to get me there."

"But it's okay to go with some other guy behind his back?"

"Well, we're all not perfect loyalists, are we? I'd hold your tongue, considering what you do in your spare time."

"What was that?" Dean narrowed his eyes, but Mrs. Milligan had gone cool and flaky again, and looked the other way in defense, wrapping her arms around her.

"It doesn't matter, tell him if you want – I mean if you can even get hold of him. I hardly see him, speak even less and we have the same address."

Perhaps he did owe it to his own flesh and blood to try a little harder to warn him, but Nicole – she was almost too clever, too aloof. Her words were starting to turn his stomach, especially because she was hardly a ridiculous person to say something she knew wasn't true. Instead he turned around and picked up the blue hat, dusting off the frost it had landed in carefully. "Don't see much of anyone these days, like you." It was nearly an admission of defeat.

"Thank-you," she muttered, placing the hat on her head again, the source of her gratefulness vague.

"Is he… spending too much time working?"

"If you count fawning over that old scratch Lucifer all hours of the day. He's like a bodyguard now. High-ranking. And sure, we ain't starving, but only in the physical sense. Catherine sees more of the landlord than she does her own Father; can't say it's any different for me. He's changed, you know. Being exposed to thugs like that – it got to him. I go to Charlie because he's still a good man, or at least a happy one, despite those dumb arguments. There's no old memories for me to compare side by side. There's nothing of him to miss; he's not like Adam in every way that counts, and what I need is… someone who isn't my husband."

"Why don't you get a divorce?" She cocked her head, then smiled in a shy, typical way.

"Oh, I know you're not the marrying type, but it's not easy like that. And I couldn't leave him, anyway. He would bring a drug ring into our own apartment building and I know I'd hardly do a thing about it."

"Why not?"

She tucked her gloved fist under her chin. "Because when we got married," she said, rather slowly, "There was a promise we kept to one another. And maybe it's half cracked already, sure; I'm just acting out the last broken pieces so I can sleep at night. But nevertheless, I married that man for a reason, even if he's a different one now. For the sake of Adam's ghost I'll be there, until someone shoots him dead. I'm not his girlfriend or his neighbor; I'm his wife. You know the crazy work he does; you must know his Mother's sick," Dean nodded. "He'd kill anyone for her, and, really, you think some fresh air is going to make her healthy again? If there's any part of Adam that's still so good it'll die with his Mother, and you know I still won't leave him after that. If I'm not a faithful wife I can be a steady, sure thing. If all we have is common decency then that's what I'm using to hold this thing together till the end."

It was such a logical thing to say Dean nearly deemed it heartless. If Mrs. Milligan got an insurance fortune out of the ploy he could guiltlessly call it such. But instead he went, "And what happens to you, when that happens?"

She glanced over at him, eyes pricking. "Why are you so curious about my fate, Mr. Winchester?" Dean leveled her look.

"Because your story reminds me of someone else's and I'd like to know how it ends." Nicole bit her lip; she looked giddy, glancing up at the starless sky.

"Well, it's going to end bloody – nothing to do about that. Unless God himself comes by with a miracle, Adam is going to get shot or drowned or drugged and there's no sense trying to talk him out of it when all his friends are in that suicide pact and he hardly speaks to me.

"But as for me. Well, I'll put him in the ground and get some peace, I hope. I'll know I stuck with something until I couldn't no more, and I did all I could do for someone I'm not too sure if I really love now anyway. Then I suppose I'll… go back to Connecticut where my brother is, try to get a romantic ending in a much less romantic setting. But once he's done, I'm done, and there's nothing to do about it." She pointed towards one of the apartment buildings, slightly reddish in color. "That's it." She seemed too tired to increase her ambling speed to the stoop, however.

"You won't be sad?"

"Oh, I probably will. But he's not dead yet, so until then I'll waste time feeling sad for myself."

"You seem to be doing fine with that, then,"

"Self-pity always comes back in vogue, I've found," she said, carefully going up the steps. She fished a key out of her pocket and opened the door. "Now, would you like to come in, search for Adam and see if he's been hiding under the bed this whole time?" Dean looked up at the apartment windows; all except for two were dark.

"I think I'll believe you," he said, slowly. "It might be for the best – we can't officially meet on friendly terms, anyhow." He couldn't be sure if Adam would need something from him – information, perhaps – but he hadn't really possessed anything noteworthy except for that elusive final job he had.

"I want to say he misses the times when you'd call on us," she said, the light from the hall illuminating the road and casting her into shadow. "But I don't know if he even misses me."

"I think he does," Dean hoped he was saying the right thing. "Adam is a good kid."

"He can be," Nicole replied neutrally, softly. Her power had bled out in the same way the lamp behind her tried to illuminate the night and failed, only doing a lazy stretch in a small periphery to show it was still, however ineffectually, operating. Dean started to step away and she started to close the door.

"You know," Dean said abruptly, "You could say I thought the worst of you not an hour ago." Nicole paused. He still didn't think highly of her. But despite that she had made her crimes seem negligible to the other problems she was preoccupied with, and it had made something like adultery become less significant.

"We're more than our actions, you know." She drummed her fingers on the doorframe. "Sometimes it's just about context." Dean could no longer see her face, though he knew that she stared down at him from the aperture, a blank figure in a curved coat, eyes piercing. "I'm glad you walked me home, Dean. Goodnight."

**xxxx**

Dean didn't go home after that: No, he refused to. But the northern parts of Brooklyn weren't so well memorized in his mind; he had no idea where to get a drink, nor even if he wanted one. There was hardly anything open or noteworthy up around here, except for maybe one thing.

By the time Dean had entered Greenpoint, had started to see those singular curved brownstones, he was convinced he was just a moment away from dying; hands frozen, ears blood flushed and sore, toes too numb to walk on. Inside he burned with a determination to talk with someone he knew. Not a bar mate, not a wise young wife, but a friend. Just a friend.

The lights on the second floor of Benny's apartment building were alight like a beacon for Dean himself, and he nearly laughed with relief, hobbling up the steps buried in snow. He rang the bell once, twice for good measure, and was set to go a third time because of the cold when he saw a shadow slid down through the frosted glass.

It wasn't Benny's, but the door opened nonetheless and he was beckoned inside after a quick up and down look by some woman in a red dress and wool stockings. "'Nother late one, huh?" she said, lighting a cigarette and closing the door behind Dean. She was pale and thin and Dean was tempted to tell her that only the offensively rich or behind-the-time farmgirls in the middle west dared to be flappers anymore, but his eye caught her long dangle of pearls and he figured that Benny was throwing some sort of party or, more likely, Benny had invited over this person and that for a drink and they had gotten another dozen in tow. The woman slinked back up the stairs and Dean fumbled out of his coat and hat – hung them up at the coat rack in the lobby so Benny's furniture wouldn't get waterlogged – and followed her to the door.

There clearly was a party going on – thirty people if not more. It was something of a miracle how they all fit in such a small space. If he was underdressed no one noticed or cared, and he quickly spotted Benny around a group of men and women sitting in the four armchairs and perching on the sides. "Dean?" He looked happy and surprised to see him, and waved him over, though it was too crowded to do anything than stand some feet closer to the congregation. "Did someone invite you?"

"No, I… I had to talk to you about something," A few people glanced at him, and what were they thinking? Making rude judgments about flakes and friends who needed favors, that's what he would have been thinking, and he shivered from the frost stuck in the lining of his jacket and the cold gazes of those in attendance. "It's important," he reiterated. Just then someone new stumbled in from the entrance, a man with a bowtie and a large fur coat that needed two others to help take off. He immediately attracted a crowd like Dean could not and a wave of people at the couches stood up, obscuring Benny from view. When the other didn't appear at his side a few minutes later, Dean assumed he was busy with other guests and retreated towards the back of the room.

It was such an odd thing to see so many people in Benny's apartment – not because Dean had never seen it before, or because he didn't already know that his friend habitually invited others over for a night. He just had no concept that they could be over at any time, especially when he, specifically, wanted to be in solitude with the other. Being by himself so often as of late, it was hard to imagine a world where others were constantly seeing, talking, being with their friends. He was bothered by his selfishness, and in retaliation grabbed a flute of something much more lethal than champagne, eyes falling on that same woman who had let him inside in the first place.

She was tall, a bit of a sneak. He could see the strap of her slip peeking out from a shoulder, where a slice of skin between the fabric of her dress and shawl had been made. She either made such a display intentionally or didn't particularly care that it had ended that way. "I'm Dean," he began, waltzing up to her, reaching for her hand. She took it without looking. "I wanted to thank you, for letting me in."

"Violet," she replied, airily. "Oh, you looked absolutely frozen outside," she continued after staring at Dean hard for a few moments. She had a toothpick with a little olive that she pushed around lazily with her finger, watching it toss from inside her empty glass. "Get me a new one, will you? Oh, thanks!" Dean hardly moved to get back to the drink table. She set her empty glass down at the window ledge, and glanced at the city lights far beyond and away. "Charming party, isn't it? Cozy, rather."

"I can't say," Dean said, even if the jubilant attitude the place now possessed made him turn raw and morose in retaliation. "I just got here."

"You do know Benny?" she asked, taking his arm. They didn't so much as stroll through the flat as elbow and shift past the crowd and through them. He saw two couples attempting a waltz and only succeeding in knocking around the furniture that hadn't been pushed to the edges of the room. Perhaps that was how Benny procured such aged looking pieces.

"We're friends," he had finished his drink, saw a bottle of Schnapps and reached out his glass for a moment, letting someone pour the drink in. He downed it immediately for the effects – he found the flavor abhorrent and too reminiscent of Crowley – they had gone into the kitchen anyway, and the woman broke away towards a stretch of countertop, where pieces of sweating shrimp and bread and cheese were placed, half gone and mostly forgotten. "And you?"

"Benny's a friendly guy," She picked up one of the shrimp, sniffed it, and popped it in her mouth. Then another. "I'm just the downstairs neighbor."

"Lucky him! So you don't mind the company he keeps?"

"So long as I'm invited and," She shook her half drained glass at him. "He always has the nicest things… It's a shame he's moving, you know." She opened up Benny's icebox and made a child-like noise, apparently at finding yet another bottle of spirits.

"Moving?" Dean opened the bottle for the both of them and drank. The heat in his throat would last longer now, he noted with some happiness.

"Well it's just talk. I haven't bothered to ask him. But I've seen one of his beds get hauled away, and some of his carpets and even some of his bottles! The better ones, probably. It's all very discreet. But you're his friend, what do _you_ think?"

Dean thought Benny was talking his advice very seriously, but instead just shrugged his shoulders and drank more. He might have even appeared thoughtful, for Violet seemed rather rapt at his pause. But that may have been asking for too much. The woman in front of him seemed to be too important for any other creature to walk in and disturb her. She twisted a pale hand around her pearls as she watched him; her form and face so feminine that she appeared more as a sprite to him. He didn't know why he didn't realize it before when she opened the door for him. But now, slanted against the kitchen counter, almost drunk that he couldn't get to such deep thoughts as reading people, he decided that he liked her. If not her than her carelessness. It was refreshing to see someone halfway interested in the world and apathetic ultimately to things that weren't hers and visible. Lately he'd spent too long caring too much, and it made him wish for just some years ago where he would have gone with someone like her, and they both would have used each other and left without feeling a twitch of remorse or sadness at the loss.

"I think he thought he's been in the city long enough," Dean found himself saying. He refilled his glass and she precariously held a slice of cheese, making a show of putting it on some bread. "Maybe he'll boat down to Jersey –"

"Oh no, not there!" Dean laughed rather hard at that, Violet followed.

"Or maybe just Florida."

"Or Mexico,"

"No man really wants to go to Mexico," he said, forgetting quickly where that statement had come from. "California?"

"Wonderful wine there," she sighed dreamily at the thought. "It must be soon. I can't imagine he'll be here in May. That's no time left at all, really."

"What's the date now?"

"The twenty-fourth." Dean smiled down at her, laughed again. He felt like he was seeing and feeling on a lag, but the mind had eluded his body with grace, and propped up like he was he was sure no one could tell the difference anyway.

Violet leaned close to him. He smelt perfume; something with roses and tempered with lavender or just detergent. "What's so funny?"

"Would you believe," he said, reaching for the bottle and failing, "That it's my birthday today?"

"Happy birthday!" she cried out, flinging her arms up and dropping some of her drink on the floor. She pretended not to notice and instead filled their glasses up, the sizable bottle nearly half empty now, tempting Dean to just go ahead and finish it with the woman. "How old? Not over twenty-five, right?"

"Twenty-eight, actually."

"Well you're nearly old then, aren't you? I'm glad you came today, even if you didn't realize till just now. Tell me you've something planned?"

"Just stay here, I guess," he was slurring a bit.

"No, no. It doesn't count if you came before you realized." She shook his arm and nearly caused them to fall over. "Well, you don't have work tomorrow do you?" He shook his head. "Good. Me neither. That means I just can't let you back out in the cold until morning," she smiled, giggled a little.

"But I'll have to sleep off this oncoming headache somehow,"

"Oh damn, me too." She fell back against the counter, next to Dean. "I guess if we can slip downstairs in an hour we'll just sleep it off together." Dean laughed again.

"Of course," he said, in a way that wasn't an answer. He was nearly positive that wasn't a sound idea in the slightest but, then, Violet glanced his way and her eyes, her lips, her hair – she was unmistakably a woman, a trendy, wealthy one at that. And not a stitch of blue on her. She was so unlike Castiel he thought he ought to kiss her just for that. Perhaps he had said that out loud, too, for she seemed to grow closer, and crane her neck up expectantly for him.

Benny came in, tugged on his arm. He hadn't heard him and even now the act of moving through the apartment was making him look hard at the floor. He didn't say goodbye to Violet and he knew she wouldn't miss him. It was a relief.

Benny sat him in the guest bedroom on a sofa facing the window. Dean heard a grumbling, hazy voice that he didn't understand. "What?"

"I said that I'm here to talk if you want to talk now," Dean blinked blearily up at him and cocked his head. "Oh, goddamn it. I leave you alone for not even an hour and you're so drunk you can't see straight." Dean slowly smiled up at him. "You're not going anywhere. And don't walk off with Violet or anyone, you hear me?" He leaned down and put his hands on Dean's shoulders: Warm, large, stiff weights on his body. He thought of Castiel and in the context of Benny was disgusted, then ignored the other for a moment and found himself distraught like he was before he had gotten a drink. "Dean?" Benny called him back, but he didn't quite feel like looking at him now, found that his daydream was more preferable, despite the ache it caused. Another shake and he stared again at what was really there. "Dean, are you sick?"

"In more ways than one," he said or thought. He reached a hand out, meaning to catch Benny's cheek but instead it rested at his throat. He looked worried. "Remember… remember last time?"

"Yes, what about it?" Benny could have been humoring him but he didn't stop to think on such things.

"Well I'm worse off than when I left," he said. "It's all not so good anymore, see…" Did he say much else; go on moaning intelligibly or not? He could only recall glancing down at his lap and the lights going out.

**xxxx**

He woke up, sluggish and unwilling, with the aftertaste of vomit in his mouth – or maybe the spirits that had since gone sour. His brain seemed to slip and slide through his skull, and he felt the creased lines of his suit hugging him as he lay on some bed – small and not as soft as his own. His shoes were still on.

Opening his eyes he saw it was actually just a couch. The sun was up but the window he looked out of was facing west, anyway, and it just made him wince a little.

He either dozed again or closed his eyes for a very long time. He could hear someone talking in some rooms over, and that made his head rattle worse. His eyes flickered open again as he thought – what about his job? He remembered he didn't have one just as he began to sit up in a panic. He felt a haze of vertigo wash over him before he had slumped fully onto the back of the couch, now sitting, feet hitting the floor with a loud thud. He wondered if Violet heard that below.

"You're not dead," Benny said from behind him. He groaned, twisting his fists into his sockets, feeling his pulse beat out violently through his skull. "That stuff from the kitchen probably could have blinded you, just so you know."

"Thanks," he muttered, unable to move. He wanted to lie down in a bathhouse somewhere and never get out, after being offered half the aspirin in the world. It was like any other time Benny held a party, really.

A few minutes later he was given some medicine and orange juice. He fought to keep it down, succeeded, and groaned in his seat again, covering his eyes. "Didn't do anything embarrassing last night, did I?" He wasn't sure where Benny was, if he was in the room at all. He felt something on the couch shift and realized he was just leaning on the back of it.

"A few guys nearly started swinging over one thing or another; some chairs got broken. Nothing too awful."

"And me?"

"Well, what do you remember?"

"Some girl, the drinks. Maybe I got dramatic over something to you, did I say much?"

"You weren't doing well, you said. Amoung other things."

"Like…?"

"Well I think you were trying to go into detail. You mentioned your brother and some friend guy you hated and something about books. I let you talk it out and tried to get you to lie down."

"Oh." Dean waited for Benny to make a joke; his heart thumped against his throat – some friend, of course. _Of course. _"Nothing detrimental?"

"Well you only said it to me; you know I hardly care about what people do in their spare time." So Benny either knew something or not, Dean thought. Either way he couldn't ask without revealing himself, and either way Benny didn't seem to care about it – he never really did, after all. He knew too much of the world; he spent ages in Greece, after all. It was a relief. "You did mention Adam, I think. Milligan came up at least."

"Before coming here last night, I saw his wife. She's cheating on him, you know."

"Are you going to tell him?"

"Oh, I don't know – why bother? It's his wife. They're heaped in problems and it seems they keep civil because they know shit about the other. It might be best to just not bother at all…" He swallowed uncomfortably. "She's smart, anyway. Too smart to really care about the morality of the thing. And I guess Adam's been working too hard, you know, in a bad sort of way. I don't want to be responsible for some god-awful crime of passion or anything."

"You think Adam would do that sort of thing?"

"Who knows? I don't talk to him. Don't talk to anyone these days," He still had his hands over his eyes, feeling sickly, though the worst of it had passed and the aspirin was doing its job. He recognized hunger but was felt too uneasy to hold anything down. He knew Benny was watching him; obviously concerned but aware that bringing attention to his problems would lead them nowhere, due to dignity and Dean's silly sort of conversation rules.

Finally he said, "Married life can get rather strange," It was meant to be a joke, but Dean groaned in response, partly from his head and partly from disgust.

"Ugh, how could anyone get married? Stay with the same person for the rest of their life?"

"You and Sam manage just fine," Benny supplied. "Though he's taken, from what I've heard. And anyway I hear that marriage is a pretty popular route of life. Hard to believe but most people don't like living alone."

"Alone." The word sent a chill down Dean's spine and he shifted on the couch. He took his hands away from his face and looked out of the guest room window. He spotted the harmless smokestacks, the buildings, the postage stamp-sized windows of the apartments across the way, some lit up with moving figures in them, offering up brief glimpses at confined parameters. He'd known Benny for years – he knew what he did for work, some of his friends, a hundred travelling tales; he knew he was a good man, a good friend, possibly the best one he'd ever had – but even if they were to never leave one another's side, he'd never know every thought he had, their lives would never be so similar that it could have been considered the same one. No matter how in sync he and his brother were, there were always disagreements, rough edges that brushed up and hurt and ground away and broke off. You couldn't be someone else like that, and watching a woman pull on a fur overcoat – a man two floors below tinkering on what looked like an upright piano for a wife or a mistress – a pair of children hopping across the floor – it made him wonder how much of Castiel had been shown to him. If he knew him at all, really.

Not like it mattered.

"There was no one after Andrea, was there?" Dean muttered. He felt his hands unconsciously curl into fists.

"No," Benny said in a sigh. "Never could be, I guess. After an heiress well, you can't really go up from there," Dean's face fell into the same faulty smirk he was sure adorned Benny's expression.

"What's it like then, you know, being alone?"

"Don't sell yourself out, Dean. I'm single, not trapped in solitary confinement." Dean glanced over his shoulder, met Benny's gaze. His friend gestured out the window Dean had been watching. "There's… people, everywhere. Friends. Associates. Family, if you're lucky."

"But you don't come home to anyone, I mean. You don't wait for someone to get back."

"Not unless you're having a party, I suppose."

"And it's… it's good, right? Not having to worry about being around someone all the time." Dean caught a flicker of motion in the corner of his eye and let his head drift back to the wide building from the window. The man who had been playing piano let the woman sit down with him, poking at the keys while he continued his melody. They were either talking or singing; it was hard to tell at the distance, especially with the windows closed to keep out the freezing air. "It's easy being like that. We're all a little alone, I guess."

He heard the floor creak as Benny shifted his stance; his hands still wrapped around the back of the couch. "Betrayal is a damn good reason to want to become a hermit, I'll give you that. Except for one problem."

"Yeah?"

"You're you." Dean glanced up again, saw Benny's face peering down.

"How's that go?"

"You're a people person in any way that word means, no doubt about it. You'd make friends with the whole world if you could – provided you had a good mood on you and most of them had a bit of an attitude adjustment. The solitary, brooding figure is cool in a movie, or in a book, but in they're not the life of the party – they're not you, either."

"But you are?" Benny shrugged.

"We both travel a lot. You less in the last few years but, I'd say that you saw a lot more people on open road than if you'd been out at sea." Dean didn't say anything in response. "Humans were meant to get paired off – or, at least, have a few friends. You can try to not talk to anyone if you want but you'd miss it too much."

"And you don't?"

"Oh, I talk plenty. I'm just a little more conservative with who I'm talking _to_." Benny clapped Dean on the shoulder. "Come on, try to stand up and I'll call you a cab. You probably want to get home now." He heard his footsteps fade into the hall, down the corridor, and away.

With the sun shining weakly through the glass, Dean kept his eyes glued to the apartment building across the street – and the rest of the westward glance through Brooklyn, across the horizon, not even daring to blink. "I think home's a lot farther than a car ride," he said out loud, but, then, no one was around to hear him.

**xxxx**

**A/N: Babies are these odd creatures and I can't deal with them – my personal opinion is that Sam would not be moved enough to name a child after his own Father. His James doesn't become some weird alternate version of the celebrity James Dean because that's dumb for nine different reasons at least. I think at this point I'm just going to name any child in this story after characters Misha Collins has played, so, Jimmy it is. Nothing much factual here to report – the Culver Line is an old subway route that first opened in 1919, and Dean is an impressively sad drunk, but this is not new information to anyone.**


	23. The Things That I (You) Want

He managed to get on, still.

Talking with Benny had smoothed things. A few other nights he got himself on a train up to the other man's apartment. They'd each go through the papers or a book, sitting by one another in the armchairs. Sometimes the radio would be on when he was in, playing music or news reports, usually tragic stuff in Europe or at home, and sometimes Benny would indulge him by letting him talk about Sam. His brother and Benny had only met flippantly and never really had gotten along, but someone besides him needed to know about how Sam's classes were going, the firms he was looking through now that he got closer and closer to getting a viable degree and the odd jobs he and Jess were pulling in the meantime, working anything from libraries to restaurants to repair lots, one of which had maintained use of his brother intermittently for over a year now.

James could hold his head up, smile, and would be crawling soon. He liked watching his mobile or fan blades spinning in lazy circles, he cooed along to the music that drifted up from the apartments below, and Dean was convinced that if he couldn't tell anyone else about such things that there was a chance he was imagining the letters, the family formed separate of him across the country, so Benny took the unexciting reports and accepted them, thought and commented on them like a dear friend would.

Dean only stayed a little while each time, trying not to impose so much even if Benny's face never stopped brightening, a smile never stopped from forming, every time he walked up to the frosted glass of the apartment entrance and greeted him. And anyway it did help: He had gotten tempered, experienced a quiet withdraw from conversation as if a great calm had descended, and he thought, rather prudently one afternoon on a walk home from such a visit, that he may just wait out the time until Crowley called on him again in such a reserved, painless state, and make it to California unscathed.

His own apartment continued to be a dreaded destination; still messy from the books on the floor. He kept the windows open, too, if only a small crack in the January, February, March air, all frigid and miserable for slightly different sources, just to get a whisper of street noise and a frosty scent instead of whatever remained in the curtains, rug, chairs, sheets.

He was hungry, vaguely, and he locked the door behind him and shed his outer layers wondering if he could possibly do with not going outside for the rest of the evening.

No more than half an hour later there was a knock at the door.

That startled him; he had no visitors, or business with the neighbors that would require them to drop by his room – unless it was Haskel Crane, dreaded landlord with a new mandate that Dean required at least one roommate to remain here, he fisted his hands at the idea, ridiculous as it was. Whoever had come, it wasn't for good news.

The knock sounded again, and he became anxious, reaching on the dresser for a pistol. He wished then for a type of door that possessed an eyeglass, so that he would have been able to see who was on the opposing side.

Instead he went to the side of the door; close enough to the bathroom that he could dodge himself inside there in case those waiting in the hall saw it appropriate to spear his door with bullets.

It _could_ be Meg, wanting to strike appropriate revenge against someone after finding out it was his fault her car had been rendered unusable ages ago. Or some other thing he did that needed evening out now.

"Who's there?" he asked, trying to sound more impatient than anything he might have been feeling.

There was a short pause. Dean strained his ears to hear the rattle of metal being readied.

Then: "It's me."

Castiel. Dean felt himself bristling at the other man's deep voice. His suspicions were not soothed away in the wake of the man appearing at his door. After all, he could have been with another person. A whole group, ready and waiting for him to come out in the wake of his luring beau he was heartbroken over, or some other melodramatic plot.

He heard a small thump. It wasn't so much a hint that something terrible was about to happen. Instead it sounded as though Castiel had leaned himself up against the door; his hand or his cheek, perhaps. "You forget perhaps that I still have a good third of my things here."

"Maybe I tossed 'em," Dean snapped back.

"Dean," Castiel used a tone that didn't sound exasperated or angry. Pleading, perhaps, was a better description. He heard something that might have been a long sigh. "I'm tired. Please. Let me in."

How horrible would it be if Dean just told him no? He ached for that simplicity, but for all the mental reserves he had rebuilt in the five months they were separated, a few subliminal thoughts raced through; _let him in,_ they seemed to say, though they did not possess words.

Pistol still drawn, he reached for the door; unbolted it, unlocked it, and swung it open.

Only Castiel there; nothing more.

"Ain't you a sore sight," Dean said, slipping the gun into his trousers after a moment. He made just enough room for Castiel to squeeze through without brushing up against him, and quickly shut the door back up once the other man made it over the threshold.

It hadn't just been for malice's sake that he insulted Castiel's appearance – he looked as he said; tired. The embodiment of it, in fact. Exhaustion at every possible turn and option available. He was sullen, sunken, and in the not half year he'd been in his own part of the world doing god knows it was as if he had aged a decade. Castiel's typical wintertime paleness was overshadowed by the recent ashen complex on his face. His jaw was dusted with thick patches of scruff that showed more of a deliberate choice to not shave than a simple forgetfulness. His hair, too, was halfway between presentable and ruined, like the man had started to go about his daily routine and abandoned it to run over to this part of the city.

However, it was the eyes, like always, that got Dean. They didn't seem so potent anymore. None of that fiery defiance from when they first met; or the tenderness when they were together – Dean's mind clenched at the thought, trying to block it out – it was not even that cold and ruthless mask he would put on in front of the less savory types. It was nothing at all. They looked washed out. The wrinkled edges of his eyes were flushed, but Dean didn't think it was from crying – more from lack of sleep.

Castiel spared him a glance, looking shaky and uncomfortable. Like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. Dean reminded himself that this was the person who betrayed his trust; the man who killed his own friend without remorse and thought he could walk away scot-free. Everything else – the lost look on his face, the way his woolen, black overcoat bunched thickly around his shoulders and shrank him down impossibly small, and the knowledge that somewhere, in a branched off world, if Castiel were caught looking like that as an innocent Dean would have wasted no time soothing away his hurt, meant nothing to him anymore.

"I haven't been able to sleep well." Castiel supplied. His jaw clenched in an angry way, and for a moment Dean thought he was about to raise a fist to punch him, but instead he saw Castiel's hand come up just as he had stopped fighting a yawn, letting it slip through and sound out beneath his fingers. Dean saw that he held a bag in his other hand, large and sturdy looking.

"I can tell."

"I… They're night terrors. Anna and Gabriel say I've been screaming some nights, in my dreams." Dean huffed.

"What do you dream about that keeps you from sleeping?" he said it in an accusatory way. He had been led to believe that Castiel's bouts of sleeplessness were more performance anxieties, like his own source of insomnia.

The other man had his head bent studiously at the floor; he was staring at his precious books, now scattered and jumbled by the chairs and tables. Dean winced at the picture, then decided Castiel would deduce nothing shameful from the scene, really. He had no secrets, not like Castiel did.

"Balthazar," he murmured, eyes avoidant. "They say I call out his name in my sleep."

His response was reflexive: "Good to know you can feel _something_." Castiel openly flinched at the acrimonious reproach Dean gave. But all Dean saw was that he could grind Castiel down into dust using just mean words. It was certainly something to rejoice in; if it was anyone else, Dean might have indulged in a smug smile, another low shot.

He sensed an ache instead.

_If it was anyone else…_

Dean swallowed, throat working. He turned away, looking longingly at the windows, at a day not nearly so stifling as this room and situation. "Your things are where you last had them," he offered dismissively. He reached for a cigarette so his hands wouldn't wring themselves together. "Just so you know, I've got somewhere to be in a few minutes." He ignored the fact that his shoes were off and his tie unknotted.

Instead he watched Castiel move slowly around the apartment. He was stiff like an automaton. It wasn't even professional aloofness and Dean, who was suddenly feeling everything acutely, was envious of it. He opened drawers, took out this shirt or that – a few he opened, shoved to his chest and found too big or too broad or too fine and were obviously not his. Dean was opening his mouth to say something in protest to Castiel just being around, but he quickly refolded the items so they wouldn't be wrinkled, and set them back where they belonged. He glanced up, uneasily, at Dean, who his cigarette into his mouth to keep quiet.

"It was always rather hard," Castiel said. He sounded half deaf, his accent was more pronounced.

"What?" Dean turned partway from the window, so he was looking at the man from more than just the corner of his eye or the reflection of the glass pane.

"It was always hard to – tell the difference between our clothes," he said, picking out two pairs of cufflinks and a tie pin. He might have smiled, Dean turned away before he could determine the case.

"We're only off a little in height," Dean replied evenly. He glanced down at the street. It was almost spring, though you could never tell in the City. Cold air swept along the hem of his shirt and dirty, gray slush was mounted on the edges of the sidewalks, the roads in a state of slippery wetness and dirtiness; huge puddles forming causing the cars to act conserved and streetwalkers more so, lest they get splashed with rotten, freezing water.

He heard steps and guessed that Castiel was looking down at those books again. Dean turned partway and saw him pick up this or that – he lifted one of the volumes, the one with the hawk's feather in it. He stooped low and Dean couldn't see his face, or much of his body, still being bundled up. Castiel was hidden to him again; Dean coughed, not from the smoke or the cold. He put a hand to his chest and felt a sharp pain there; if he was more health-minded he'd be concerned about an attack or some odd ailment, but instead he rubbed his thumb over the spot and watched the oblivious, bent over figure.

It _hurt_ – what did? His wakened thoughts wondered at his subconscious. Meanwhile Castiel shut the book and placed it on top of the table, searching through others to clear or take. Watching him in movement made Dean grimace uneasily, and he put out his cigarette, unable to continue.

Loss, ironically, was one of the most palpable things a human being could experience. The concept struck him and made him angry. He'd been doing so well, too!

Dean remembered that once, ages ago, he considered that Castiel was the one that woke him up; propelled him into some realm of feelings or experience that had so far been beyond his grasp, and he supposed that still held true. After months of aimless anger, anxiety, edgings of pain, despair if he was feeling dramatic, he had managed to curb it into a helpful lack of extremes. He had fallen half asleep again, but now, just by simply knocking and calling for him, Castiel had managed to startle him fully with ease, as if his own body had wanted to feel the full extent of loss at the other's presence all along. It made him hate the other, and soon Castiel had taken a small stack of his books and shoved them into his bag – about half were now just on the table.

He looked around, as if taking in the apartment for the first time. It certainly appeared emptier with some of Castiel's things left out of it, but when had Dean needed so many things, anyway? He tried not to grow embarrassed when their eyes met, or almost did; Castiel looked through him like he was a mistake he didn't want to see.

"Well?" Dean went, impatiently.

"That's all I can fit in my bag," Most of his clothes, a few accessories, books. "I can come back in a few days."

"Friday?"

Castiel nodded, slowly, hauling the bag from where it rested on the floor into his grasp. "I'll stop here that evening, clear the rest of my things out." He glanced over to the coat rack. "Wasn't one of my overcoats there?"

"I have it," Dean stared at the back of Castiel's head again. "Anything else? Or can you leave me to it," Castiel sucked in a breath, clutched at the suitcase.

"I'll go, then." He walked to the door. "Dean?" he said, staring into the hall. He didn't answer, and a moment later Castiel had gone.

Dean bumped his foot against his wall, making the glass shake slightly. His chest and head were pounding; he wiped at his face and found he was sweating; his fingers trembled.

He slowly made his way to the door; locked it up again. He leaned against the wood in case he could hear Castiel's breathing, his steps, but all was silent.

The flat felt not just uncomfortable but treacherous now; being here would surely cause his heart to heave out of his chest. He felt the knives twist into him as he slowly peeled off the rest of his clothing. For all the awfulness of his abode, he daren't venture outside.

**xxxx**

Days passed. Dean found himself waking up on Friday feeling sick and pretending it was from a change in air pressure as cold winds blew forth, carrying last minute snowstorms and freezing rain. All day he felt a fever had descended over him, and walks without a coat in the chill air and a soothing bath and warming stew from a restaurant down the street did nothing for him. He had put Castiel's razor and soap back in the washroom, his shoes by the coat door, but for the life of him he couldn't take the trench coat out. He had hung it up, but every time he glanced in that corner he cursed and whirled around because _Castiel was there waiting for him_. He wasn't, and if Dean wasn't so shaken from his visit some days before maybe he could have stood such things, but instead he folded it up and stuck it back in the bottom drawer of his wardrobe.

He sat down in his armchair at three in the afternoon, eyeing the clock and waiting for a knock on the door. He had the post by his feet, hadn't looked at it yet. It was too early for Sam's letters and bills anyway.

It was five, then six; around eight he fixed toast and coffee because he wasn't sure if anything else would make him ill. He was harshly reminded of the day he spent up, waiting for Castiel to come home while he was out murdering his friend.

He went through the mail to find a note from Crowley requesting an afternoon appearance. He had been waiting for that sort of thing. Surely it meant that Lucifer would be getting offed soon, and more than that he'd be able to leave New York for good. It registered worry, but the message's implication seemed above him. He tucked it into his coat pocket and resumed waiting for something that seemed much more dangerous than a mere future death.

By nine he had gone into something of a frenzy: Castiel had given his word that he'd be here – he would get his things and leave so that Dean could go back to being half-feeling and unbothered and the other was keeping him from that out of spite or perhaps he was dead now; had done something stupid and deserved it and – he was flinging on his hat and coat and scarf not a minute later; if Castiel was dead then fine, but he probably wasn't – was too good at surviving harsh things for that. He just hated Dean, was all, and if he wouldn't come by to make Dean nervous and fearful he'd drag the bastard out of his little hole himself.

The trek to the tailor shop was a journey retained by muscle memory, he was irritated to discover. Not much had changed here; cold and unkempt, some stores and buildings had an abandoned look to them, but that didn't necessarily mean that no one lived there anymore. The tailor shop had the same red banner, Dean realized he still didn't know what the Russian words said, the brick walls and white front façade were indistinguishable as well as the blinds drawn entirely down, now. It was closed, after all. He knocked hard on the glass door, feeling it shudder under his fist. Skin pulled tight over his fingers, he felt the cold brutally there and his muscles had begun to grow sore.

He heard something above him and looked up.

One of the two windows from the second floor – the left one, meaning it was the small spot above the kitchen sink – creaked open, and Anna, whom he hadn't seen in half a year, stuck her head out and glared down at him. Her hair was still on the short side, only just past her shoulders. They both stared, mildly surprised at the other's appearance. Dean slowly stuffed his hand back into his pocket.

"What are you _doing_ here?" She certainly made coming feel like a mistake. The cold night seeped into him.

"I'm looking for Castiel," That sounded odd, didn't it? "He said he would come by tonight, and get his things – but he never did. Can you tell him? Please,"

Anna continued to stare at him, and certainly didn't call for someone. Dean felt the fumbling manner of their conversation and didn't take to it well. Now, if he had been with Anna, and it was Castiel he had to answer to, the problem would have been simpler: He could have come downstairs and beat Dean to a pulp, or try to, for ruining his sister's virtue or her sleep or whatever had come from such a break. But what to do when they were both just men? The two of them had been in such a way that had never been documented or acknowledged in the same manner the usual couple was; there was no normal way to go about it, not if their own existence was marred as outside the range of normalcy itself. And anyway he could pick Anna up easy enough; they couldn't just knock each other into the snow without someone calling the police for some sort of abuse going on. So instead they were stuck staring at one another, wondering how best to overstep particular parameters.

In the end Anna had adopted a haughty look. She raised her nose, gesturing to other streets. "He's not home anyway. Hasn't been since dinner. He never mentioned seeing you to begin with."

"He just disappeared?"

"Just," she sighed. Dean should have known better, she seemed to think. "No, he's been doing this for months. Takes walks. Says it clears his head." She stuck out her arms so she could look at them instead of Dean's stupored form down below.

"All of the sudden?"

"Well he's done this before. Back when we first came here. It was Balthazar who'd take him this way and that in exploration." She kept her voice carefully monotone, but Dean knew he had overstayed hospitality.

"Do you know where he went?"

She glanced down at him again. "I don't ask. I trust that he'll come back when he's ready."

"But it's cold out – all by himself and you just let him…?" He was trying to make Anna uneasy, but all it seemed to him was he was still worrying about whatever that man did with himself. He was over that, surely he'd learnt his lesson by now.

"He knows how to put on a jacket," He thought she might spit down on him or say a foreign word they both knew the unflattering meaning of. "You can look around Coney Island and beyond if you want, but don't expect me to thank you for it. I can trust him – if he says he'll be back he will." She pulled her head back, and Dean thought she had left him. He glanced back the way he had come, dumbly, wondering where in the hell Castiel would venture off to for hours on end.

The light cut itself strange and he looked back up to see Anna again. "You're still here?"

"I was –"

"Well go do it somewhere where Gabriel won't look out the window and see you!"

"What's it to you where I stand?"

"Not much; Gabriel's the one who wants your legs broken." She glanced behind her, into the house. "And I won't lie about who I'm talking to. So go."

"Uh, thanks,"

"Goodnight," she said with some bitterness. The window squeaked shut and Dean turned around, getting out of the shop's sight.

He shivered after a while: The cold beat around him and all the fur coats and radiators could not, _would not_, not even in his mind, do damage. March was really the worst for everything; no holidays, no reprieve of Spring, a chance for snow but never enough to cancel plans, only ruin them and your shoes along the way. Speak of the goddamn devil some flurries sank from the sky, just enough to get onto his lashes and chill his face and make him curse quietly to himself while he continued his trek. It was so close in time to warmth that the body seemed to lose its hardened adaption it had been building since October and the first browning of lawn grass.

Moreover, Castiel was gone, Dean had no clue where to find him, and he couldn't rest easy until then.

He still had so much power over him.

Coney Island was desolate, windy. There were no stars and the lamplights on the corners offered no help, no secret of where that stooping, sad man had gone off to. Maybe he had killed himself, Dean thought, eyes drifting south where the pier would eventually form in a mile. Castiel had the disposition where, if broken enough, he'd be more likely to hurt his body than another's. But if he couldn't manage it back in October, with Balthazar hardly buried and Dean's contempt not reined in with time, then he didn't have the guts to do it now. He was somewhere, half dead, but somewhere.

He marched resolutely North, found himself on the right side of that park Castiel had taken him to – Grady Playground. It was heaped in a thin layer of snow, no footsteps disturbed it. It was too dark to see the park benches they had sat on, wordlessly, for hours. Dean recalled thinking of nothing for most of it; now his mind never shut up and he missed that simplicity, where a kiss on the cheek was the end of the world to him, where that was what he ran away from.

Castiel had _always_ possessed some power over him, even then, where he had laughed at Castiel's invitation to intimacy of any sort. He placed his hands on the iron bars separating the park from the street. He always had such influence, and he never even realized it.

He shouldn't have looked so awful, then, if Dean was the only one who had suffered loss by Castiel's betrayal. Five months. Wasn't that enough to hide the grief you felt over a friend?

His hands tightened, metal feeding ice into his palms until they turned pink and wet.

He knew where to look now.

**xxxx**

Graveyards at night seemed to be asking for trouble, and Dean took a calming breath before he hopped over the low wooden posts and into Washington Cemetery. His fault for preferring Lovecraft to Lawrence, he figured.

Unlike the park he saw some pathways made in the white, branching off from column to column. He peered down one of the rows and thought he saw some flowers laying by a stone, though he couldn't tell if they were fresh or not.

The lights from the street didn't stretch far enough, and he could only tell which graves were which by getting up close and reading them. He had no confirmation that Castiel would be here; maybe he was walking aimlessly, as Dean tended to. And anyway he was still partly convinced that Castiel didn't care that Balthazar had died – was merely doing a resonating job acting out grief while Dean was near. But after he exposed him for lying months ago, there was no reason for Castiel to look unrested and miserable; it would have made just as much sense to say he was having night terrors about Dean as it was his dead friend. Regret didn't negate his crime, but it left an uncomfortable stir in his stomach; one that couldn't just be delegated to the mercies of past affections.

The yard was not ending, but the lines of graves were. Dean looked down every row to the right side of him, pausing at any odd shadow or sound. Balthazar's site hadn't been so deep inward that he wouldn't be able to see something, he thought. Where had he been placed?

He ventured into one of the rows whose first entry had died in December, 1929. He must have been close. Months changed, names, ages. The new city cemeteries were too regulated to place people just anywhere. Bodies had no more of a chance of being out of place than a library book on a shelf, and that was just what he needed.

He went through the stones at the end of the row, doubling back and hitting the right year, two months later, and he paced back towards the main walking path in the dark, ears attentive and eyes watching the script on the rocks. Impatience bubbled forth, offering anger but none of the heat that accompanied such emotions. It was too cold for that; he was just thankful the wind was only the barest breeze, cooling his face but not freezing it.

He thought he smelt alcohol. Something strong, not cheap or rotten or secondhand from a drunkard's sweat. It died with the wind and Dean stilled, feet no longer crunching on the coated ground.

Castiel was hunched in the snow. He was turned away from him and Dean couldn't help but wonder if that was a corpse he was staring at, but the man adjusted himself forward again, not staring at Dean. The wind blew up once more; riding along with it was the scent of liquor; the smell of Castiel's clothes and the brand of tobacco he smoked.

He had found Castiel. He'd been looking for a reason and that was certainly not to sit down in the snow with the crazy idiot. Hell knew whatever his original purpose had been, though.

Dean walked forward some, judging Castiel like a wild creature bound to run off once it knew it wasn't alone. Should he touch him – tap him on the shoulder or head, or would he stand further away and call him out?

Still at a distance Dean settled to cough quietly into his fist; it seemed the least disruptive, even if Castiel's shoulders jerked slightly.

Castiel's head turned towards him. Dean wondered if the other man couldn't see enough to identify who he was, but after a moment Castiel's voice murmured, "…Dean," It was a little underwhelming, honestly.

"Castiel," The name sat bloated and formal on his tongue: Castiel was a good name – singular and important sounding; it looked divine on paper, but when spoken it seemed to come out mangled, questioning; Cas had quickly formed and used for the majority in Dean's case, but that seemed overtly friendly now.

"I'd like to ask you why you're here, but," Castiel looked at the grave. "Well, I can't imagine it's a benign one, or at least one I'd like to hear very much." He brushed his fingers over a small trace of powder on the top ridge.

"Do you know what day it is?"

"No," Castiel continued smoothing his hand across the rock. "But you're here…" He seemed to think, flexing his fingers as they came back wetted. "Friday, I suppose. I missed the time I said I'd come, didn't I?"

"Damn right you missed it," Dean's words were grumbled, but lacked venom. He couldn't see Castiel one bit and was getting sick of just hearing his voice and not how he looked, so he stepped closer and closer, until he could reach his leg out and nudge the other should he want to. It was still dreadfully lightless since he was looking down. He was tempted to sit, actually _sit_ next to the other for even as Castiel's head turned upwards he saw nothing but black impressions.

"I'm sorry. I can come tomorrow, if you're not busy. Or Sunday, in the afternoon after service, maybe," He turned back to the stone, figuring that would pacify Dean enough to get him to leave.

"Oh no you don't,"

"I don't what?" Castiel was trailing his words, letting them go wispy and disappear. He was too coherent to be drunk or drugged but something significant had a hold on him. Dean eyed Balthazar's name and sighed, resolutely.

He stepped past Castiel and sat down on his left, in the snow, like a half crazy idiot. By his knees he spotted a bottle; sizable, brown and labeled in a font too small to read in the dark, though he knew it was liquor and he knew it was empty.

"What's this?" he asked, picking up the bottle.

"It's Balthazar's," He shifted uncomfortably.

"You stole it from –"

"No! No," His eyes tracked the bottle and he didn't speak again until Dean slowly put it back down in the snow. "He had neighbors that ran a brewery in their house half a block down. Some other building's landlord and his wife owned a few apartments on the street. He'd be the doorman for them at their parties and warn them about any officers patrolling the neighborhood, and they always gave him a free bottle, every Friday, on his window ledge on the fire escape." He picked up the bottle himself, ran his fingers along the rim, then held it closer to him, resting it on his thigh and cradling the neck with his fingers, looking down at it. "Every Friday afternoon like clockwork. It was always high-quality, he told me. Sometimes too much yeast or malt but – it was always worth drinking the entire thing over the weekend."

"Thought you didn't like to drink." Castiel shrugged, stared off at something behind them. "You know they're going to find out you – or _someone's_ been taking their liquor. That Balthazar's not… _around_ to get it himself."

Castiel tipped his head up slightly. "They haven't had a party in ages, though. They assume he's on vacation or out somewhere. But I'm always there on Friday. No one's bought the place yet. I guess we haven't been trying too hard." His fingernails made small dings as he hit them against the glass. "Haven't spread the news that well, either. All they know is that the bottles get taken like every week for the past three years, so he must be the one taking them."

Dean opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again. Speechless. The snow had turned into water that was seeping past his coat and into the calves of his pants. Castiel had been there much longer and he had hardly moved. Maybe had gotten used to the cold, growing up in Russia and staying here every Friday to drink a homemade malt liquor in an effort to keep the smallest piece of the world moving like Balthazar had never left it.

Castiel stopped tapping, eyes still on the stars. He didn't seem so much sad as vacant. Like part of him had been poured out. The last time Dean had seen him at Balthazar's grave he was stooped and cracked open, but not now. It seemed that Castiel was done crying, possibly forever. Tears were for emotions too big to understand without a sort of sign, or for people who still held onto some confusion, and in that bewilderment of loss and death there was always the hope that things would get better. Castiel no longer possessed such a delusion, not after coming to Balthazar's grave night after night. It wasn't like Dean's convoluted thoughts and theories of his Father, or the shady memories of his Mother. Castiel had exposed himself to the raw nerve until – not until it didn't hurt or didn't affect him, but so much that he had no choice but to see the natural end to it: No shortcuts, no cheating, no vacation and no other explanation except for the obvious one.

He had no more tears to shed for the occasion, just some bottle to drain and snow to brush off his friend's grave.

How long could he do that? Would his health deteriorate with the sleepless nights and the guilt and the exposure? Or would the landlords catch on when Balthazar doesn't speak to them come their next party? Either way Castiel would still be here, for as long as he could manage it. No one was going to stop him or distract him from it. If he didn't die he'd linger for decades, probably get an urban legend spawned with late night walkers assuming what they were seeing from the road was a ghost first instead of a man.

It was a second-hand ending and Dean felt the corner of his chest thump painfully, like the last time he saw Castiel. He tried to ignore it.

Castiel wasn't looking at him. Dean faced the gravestone – it didn't have a date of birth, since no one knew for sure.

"Why'd you even do it?"

"Do…" Castiel twisted the bottle down into the snow. "Still curious about that, are you? Keeps you up at night?" It was a tease without the matching tone.

Dean snorted. "Hardly. But if you're here and I'm here I don't see why I can't ask." He watched Castiel poke the neck of the bottle with his finger to straighten its stance. He huffed.

"Everyone was crammed in there. Some men were hiding in between machines, but I wasn't. _He_ wasn't.

"We saw each other; he had this angry look on his face. You thought you were being hard on me when you found out what I was doing?" His voice raised not in a questioning tone but a humorous one; it chilled the air and Dean shivered in his coat. "You should have seen what Balthazar could do. I could already tell; if we didn't have to stay quiet he would have been saying something like, 'After this is over, we're going to have a talk.' He _would_ say 'after this' – shoot outs? Hardly news for him. He treats it like breakfast." Castiel coughed lightly into his sleeve, sniffed. "Treated it.

"Someone on some side shot out a window and spooked the next person; I was aiming at somebody's hat and just as I pulled the trigger Balthazar stumbled and fell." He made a shrugging motion, lifting his hands and dropping them back into his lap to twist into themselves again; it was more directed at the stone than Dean.

"Balthazar was shot in the chest."

Castiel hummed. "That's right."

"You were aiming for people's heads?"

"I didn't want anyone to bleed out; if they had to die I thought… well they're dead anyway I'm sure it doesn't matter to you how they went."

Dean remembered how Castiel had shot into the bone white bark of that tree in the Catskill Mountains; so good he scared them both a bit. And Balthazar was on the shorter side; shorter than Castiel especially.

"So – so you couldn't have shot him," Dean said quietly.

Castiel made a noise. It sounded bemused, tolerant. "Any other crime you think I didn't commit now?" He didn't challenge Dean's idea; agreeing or not it was clear Castiel had no use for what Dean esteemed him to be; the damage was already done; the chips fallen, dust settled, they just so happened to have a conversation in the aftermath.

And Dean had permission to question.

Unburdened by Dean's opinion or time sensitive secrets, Castiel had no reason to lie, and Dean had no reason not to ask. About anything he wanted. He adjusted the knotted scarf at his throat and realized it was the soft material that the Novaks had given to him on his twenty-seventh birthday. It had been blindly reached for in his drawer, he hadn't realized… it was too cold to take it off, so he slowly put his hands back down, then into the pockets of his jacket.

"Alastair," he demanded, breath puffing out the name.

"I roughed him up, shot him." Castiel stirred on the ground beside him. "I feel a little bad about that. I wasn't alone, a few others insisted."

"You stuffed him in that house and left him."

"We heard sirens. Think it was just a fire car, but no one wanted to finish the formality once he had died."

"These were Crowley's guys." Castiel nodded once.

"Young. Boys, practically," he added.

"Oh, well." The young recruits were usually fresh out of high school – or freshly dropped out – and feeling invincible. They never learned how to clean up their messes until they were being carted to a trial. They either wasted away in prison or made something of themselves.

Dean chanced a look at Castiel, but his eyes were fixated at the text in front of him, still.

Castiel had lied and murdered and no amount of rationalizing would fix that, really. Even if he felt halfway relieved, soothed by the lack of emotions in Castiel's deep voice, he would never forgive him. If he woke up suddenly only to find the last half year had been a dream he figured he would still never trust Castiel fully again.

But he longed to know. Just one more answer to either solidify his hatred or cast it into a continuous denial; either way they were separated forever.

"And that rich business man. The one we played poker with the summer before last who was friends with Joseph Arturi."

"Toce," Castiel murmured. "You thought I killed him, too?"

"Did you?"

"In a manner of speaking.

"The papers reported he was shot to death – I suppose while that was the main cause it was more a diversion. I shot him in the shoulder so he'd bleed out, but, even if I wasn't there he would be dead.

"Crowley gave me a partner. Some crafty woman from England. Not in the news but if you knew her I wouldn't be surprised. Her name was Bela Talbot." He glanced down at the bottle, didn't see Dean's hands curl tight into fists, hard enough that his skin turned the color of the snow.

"_Her_?" he said, putting emphasis on the word to give part of his frustration somewhere to go. If Castiel noticed he said nothing.

"It was at a party. A political function; she was some absent man's date, wore a blonde wig and faked sounding like a Republican's wife from Georgia who had to fill in for her husband due to some business he had, it was all rather convincing, coming from her – she was admirably good. Could've been an actress, I bet."

"Yeah," His heart pounded savagely, wondering at the details.

"I was made a waiter, served things for an hour – think I might have seen the governor there," he added fancifully. "I gave Toce a glass of champagne right after she'd gotten one from the tray."

"It was poisoned, wasn't it?"

"Arsenic she hid in a vial under her hat. He excused himself to a private bathroom down the hall from the party. Thought it was a coughing fit."

"And you dragged him outside to shoot him."

"No one had any reason to search for poison that way. She took off her wig and put on a sweater, loosened my tie and we stumbled back into the party, acting drunk. Some officer asked about us and she started to kiss me around the neck – obscene enough to get the pair of us out of the building for rude conduct; it was safer than trying to slip away."

Dean could practically smell some girlish scent on the air. "And then?"

Castiel hesitated. "I would assist in some gambling scams at times, and with all that I'd done enough for Crowley."

"No – Bela, I mean. What of her?"

"We walked to a street and parted ways," Castiel said simply. He spoke like none of the topics had actually occurred to him.

"That's all?" Castiel had no reason to lie of his innocence now, but Dean still couldn't believe it.  
>"Did you have any other suspicions?" Came the stiff reply. Nothing made him bat an eye except Balthazar. Dean put his hand to his gut to try and compress the sudden pain he felt there. First his heart had ached, but now it was a sort of guilt that was drilling into him.<p>

"You're slightly better than I thought you were." Castiel either understood it or he didn't. He had some loyalty in him, then. Not enough, but Dean could no longer demonize him. That was the trouble with anyone he spent time with: They were all people, uneven and twisted like an aged tree; without the depth of awful characteristics the decent ones carried no weight. Castiel had done some of the worst things, but he wasn't in one dimension; Dean could freely loathe him but only on the account of admitting one or two things he liked. He had to now; even in the heap of his evil deeds they all weren't as sinister as he thought, wanted to think.

People were damn hard, and Dean's posture sank into the ground some more.

"Don't see why you're here," Dean muttered. "Didn't even put the bullet through your friend's head."

Castiel went rather still beside him. Dean felt tempted to say sorry, like Castiel had earned some politeness back for himself.

"If you were in the same room as Sam when he got shot," Castiel said slowly, "Would you feel as though it wasn't your fault?"

Dean's stomach clenched painfully again, as though he'd been punched.

"Sorry," Castiel continued, "I forgot you don't want me to talk about your family like that."

"S'Fine," Dean said, purposefully mumbled. He sat stubborn and quiet next to Castiel for some minutes more, if only to decide what to do next. A wind rustled through, making Dean's ears burn and his teeth crackle together aggressively.

Castiel had to leave the graveyard. He'd die of the exposure – if not today, then the next or the one after that. And how would Dean know if he did, anyway? Anna and Gabriel would never tell him; the obituaries might not cover their neighborhood considering that the paper he got could have whole articles and ads in Italian. Who on Dean's street would care about a Russian man dying? No one; even he shouldn't, but here he was, struggling to get to his frozen, wet feet so he'd feel a bit more domineering as he roughly prodded Castiel's shoulder. "Come on," he said harshly.

"What?" Castiel chanced to stare at him, saw something in his face he didn't like, then flicked over to the black dome over their heads.

"Your family's worried sick and this must be trespassing."

"It's a public space."

"Nothing's a public space at eleven o' clock at night and you know it. Stay and I'll get a policeman over. Tell him you're drunk – or dismantling the graves." He saw Castiel smile at the threat. He stared at the tombstone for another minute, long enough that Dean was seriously considering searching for a payphone to make his bargaining feel more real when Castiel finally rose to his feet, taking the bottle with him and swaying a little as the blood rushed back to his legs.

"Did you come all this way to order me to do something?"

"Came all this way to remind you about those books you like so much. Now I'm just trying to get you home only half frozen." He nudged at Castiel's shoulder and they slowly ambled down the whitened path, out of the yard. He had made a point to get Castiel home, and that made things seem more official to him. It was easy to focus on the task rather than the way Castiel's shoes sounded in echo of his own. They didn't exchange a word until they had crossed back into Coney Island. No one was around, and Dean felt prodded with the image of how the two of them would walk places together, just like this. He was cold and tired, he had no place to be cruel now and revel in its roundabout justice. The only bit of consolation was that Castiel had been truthful, that his explanations had assuaged Dean in a way that time couldn't. It made him want to ask for clarification of other things; personal things he had no use in caring for. He had a question he could not ask – the one thing that Dean wouldn't accept if the answer was no.

He thought up an imposter instead, and spoke out: "Would you do it again? All of this?" Castiel turned his neck, side-eyed him a moment.

"Does it matter?" Dean shrugged, face hot.

"No, I suppose not."

Castiel looked ahead of them. They had gone down Shell Road, and soon a street would break. Dean would go west into Coney Island, and Castiel would go east to Brighton Beach. "I don't know," he said.

"Safe answer,"

"I can't think of a truer one to give," It wasn't insulting, to think that Castiel didn't want to suffer through all this loss and dirty work if he had full knowledge that he'd end up here again; Dean couldn't get upset at that. Perhaps he wished he could, though. His stomach hurt and he blamed Castiel and himself for the pain.

There was a streetlight that Castiel paused at, Dean realizing as he had gone several steps in front of him. It was just before the mouth of Neptune Avenue came upon them and they would be forced to part ways. He turned around and saw that Castiel had pulled out a cigarette; he had it almost to his lips when Dean spotted him, and he paused. The eerie light made him appear white and frail; the way he hesitated when Dean's eyes were upon him made him resemble a schoolboy caught smoking by a teacher. Dean had seen Castiel smoke a thousand times, and he never stopped unless to smile, or if a thought had occurred and he had to slip a comment in before lighting up. Castiel surely wouldn't feel trepidation just by having Dean around – it wasn't as if his chest felt like something had seized up and died inside it every time he looked at _Dean_.

He dreaded looking at such a hollow, faded creature. Now that Castiel had reaffirmed that some of his memories of the man could be decent, the one in front of him was like a frail imposter. He didn't loathe him entirely, but he wanted him _gone_.

"Yes?" Castiel asked, finally, taking the cigarette away. He cocked his head and Dean's mouth twitched, sour saliva collecting under his tongue that he couldn't seem to swallow. "What is it?" It was only from concentrating very hard he managed not to spit at him.

"What do you _want_?" Dean heaved out, and once he finished he put a hand to his chest, feeling his heart thud anxiously there, like a doomed man's fists against the bars of a prison cell. Castiel glazed over again and looked past Dean; arms dangling with the unlit smoke.

"The things that I want?" Castiel echoed, quiet enough that the winds around them nearly blotted the sound from existence, but Dean refused to go closer to something so different from what he'd known.

"That's what I said," Dean groused, but Castiel said nothing in response, only squinted at him in that cool detached way. Finally he worked out a matchbook, lit the end of the rolled cigarette like Dean's question didn't matter. "Come on, give me something. Aged whiskey, a bit of sunshine, the economics to pick themselves up," He frowned. "Balthazar," he said, in a smaller tone, before looking away. He sounded like he was begging for attention; with Castiel he hardly had to ask. "The last two goddamn years of your life back – I won't blame you if you said that, really, you don't need to tell me you don't know to spare my feelings or whatever you were trying to do."

Castiel walked towards him until they were both at the intersection of streets, fingers curled by his mouth. Dean wished to look away, hoped Castiel wouldn't touch him as he fought between feeling angry and hurt – feeling too much, really. He stopped some feet in front of him, looked behind Dean and blew out a cloud of smoke. "I want to go home, Dean." Castiel said, enunciating each word with careful, harsh meaning, so that Dean wouldn't miss it. He slid his eyes back to Dean's face. "That's what I want."

"I'm –," He swallowed, eyes flickering down the road and back. "I can't give you that, Cas. Castiel,"

Castiel's eyes were lethal now, but he pulled back. "I'll come by tomorrow afternoon, I promise," he said. He began to walk the other way, gaining distance from Dean, and was almost on the other side of the road when Dean spoke up.

"Saturday's no good for me," he announced. Castiel paused, looked over his shoulder. "I mean, I got a letter," He touched near his heart, where he had tucked his mail into the pocket sewn into the coat lining. "It's from Crowley."

Castiel slowly turned all the way around. "Is it about –"

"Yes. It is." He worried his lip sharply with his teeth. "And I think it's best if you come with me."

Castiel jolted slightly. "Me?"

"Well you were there in the beginning," Dean reasoned to them both. "If you're not there Crowley might not like it – he has no reason to believe we're not still, well, friendly," Dean said uncomfortably, "Just make an appearance with me, then we'll go to my apartment, and it will be done with."

"And you trust me to go there and see him?"

"You said you had done enough to go with your family out of state?" Castiel nodded, crushing his cigarette butt into the ground. "Then you're capable of saying no to him if he asks. You have nothing else to gain from killing someone else, right?"

Castiel grimaced, but slowly agreed to Dean's idea, then to his meeting place.

"Get home now," Dean said, starting to turn down the street. Castiel watched him carefully, then chuckled in an unamused way.

"If it were so simple," He turned back around and vanished around the next city block without saying a farewell. It was an awful habit, Dean thought, adjusting the gifted scarf around his neck.

Was he making a mistake? Well, yes. But a dreadful one? It wasn't a smart decision, no it certainly wasn't, and yet – he didn't feel sorry for Castiel. Not one bit. And not just because it was his own actions that landed him where he was now; he had too much respect for the other to feel pity on his behalf. If Castiel had no friend or honor to keep him sane these last few months, he had dignity still tied to him, and that kept him upright over love.

He could let Castiel go, have him come back Saturday and gather his things, had intended to, and still wanted to even, but then what would become of him? He'd just vanish forever, and no, no, that sort of ending had no dignity in it – it wasn't the sort of end that would allow Dean to sleep at night; there was no goodbye, no mirrored edge to call it quits on. He knew that Castiel already had enough information to put a hit out on him, and for all Crowley knew they were still perfectly fine, so yes. He hated Castiel in his company in the apartment they once shared, but one final meeting with Crowley, a long walk together and some parting words, yes, he could do that – he could leave on that sort of thing, and maybe find peace afterwards.

It was a sentimental thing – for all of Dean's viciousness he had as many weak spots – of course Castiel leaving forever was something that would give him pause.

**xxxx**

**A/N: I think I accidentally made someone upset when I told them about the upcoming CVB chapters, and how odd it was to write Dean and Castiel as 'two people who aren't necessarily in love with each other anymore'. On another note there is an end to this story in sight! And it's hovering somewhere around 28 chapters and 200,000 words.**


	24. It's a Real Tragedy, Ain't It?

They were to meet at 72nd street, not on the corner where traffic was busy but against a café, the one with a vibrant orange banner on it. The spot was close enough to Crowley's mansion that the clumsy and awkward way of walking a long time and traveling along the train route were accomplished separately, but still gave them a few minutes to formulate some sort of cohesive plan of defense. Crowley wasn't about to surprise him or Castiel again, Dean would make sure.

He was contemplating getting a coffee – or better yet something to eat – he hadn't had dinner. He thought he saw a woman walk out with a pastry some minutes ago, and he didn't want to think that Castiel would show up on time, or at all. He _liked_ to think so; after last night and a decent sleep it was easier for him to hold Castiel in good esteem. Instead he took out a cigarette from his case and lit it, watching a sea of passerby and feeling split moments of excitement bubbling low in his stomach when he thought what he saw was a recognized face or body, but wasn't.

Just when he was teetering on the edge of doubt Castiel appeared to the left of him – surprising him enough that he nearly crushed the smoke he was holding.

"Nice to see you could make it," Dean greeted, trying to right himself.

"We had an appointment," Castiel said, "This one I intended to keep." Castiel looked well rested, and he had a glint in his eye that wasn't the one Dean had always seen; it was something more subdued, but not absent. It was the difference between a streetlamp and a searchlight, but both were preferred to the dark.

"Well, I'm glad."

They started walking down the street together, and Dean finished his cigarette before they said anything else.

"You've been to Crowley's place before?" Castiel nodded, looking at the ground.

"Once, only. The first time, when I went to ask him – well, you know. It was…"

"Like something out of a book?"

"I walked into the lion's den without even a stone to arm myself," Castiel said, smirking. "And I knew that right away. It's an intimidating place,"

"Like a castle," Dean mused. "…But, listen, I think this is just about my last job. You covered your debt, didn't you?"

"Me and my family were accounted for, I got it in writing a few months ago. I've done enough, and I don't intend to do more." He gazed over at Dean, face tight. "I know what you're trying to ask me."

"No jobs, no more deals,"

"I've seen what happens to people who work with Crowley," Castiel said, careful to keep his tone neutral. "And I know firsthand now. I won't accept anything he offers me."

"You promise?"

He blinked at Dean. "Does my word mean anything to you anymore?"

His mouth stuck, and he couldn't respond. Castiel looked away again. "I promise, Dean. No more deals. No more – I'm done. I'd like, more than anything, to be done."

"No matter what?"

Castiel hummed thoughtfully. "What could Crowley give me now that I'd want?"

"Money," Dean guessed blankly.

"And power? Maybe a Congress seat while we're at it?" Castiel smiled again, shook his head. "No, no, we're not starving; if I have a price it must be so high I can't even imagine the number." His smile tilted. "As a matter of fact, I still have most of that money from that poker game saved."

"You saved it?"

"What else was I supposed to do with it? Get a fur coat?"

"At least a nicer hat," Dean said, teasingly, he reached up to tug at Castiel's fedora, its band too wide to be completely in vogue. He pulled back, a little surprised at himself. Castiel readjusted his hat so it wasn't tipped so much – it had nothing so severe as an angle, but it was at something of a line that wasn't straight on his head. He still looked good in it, style regardless.

"It's bundled up in a metal lockbox in my room, along with some other pieces. It's for investment, or an emergency of some kind. It's something like four hundred dollars, I can't fathom needing any more for something."

Dean accepted Castiel's answer, humor easing the path to do so. The sun had come out, overcast skies fading from that morning just in time for a fiery sunset to appear. Along with it Dean felt a good mood emerging. Their talk was only somewhat serious; the pauses as they weaved through other walkers and the brisk pace they kept, the warm weather, Dean prudently hoped for a good break at the end of it all; he could say goodbye on a day so nice as this. The past had occurred, but it seemed like it had happened so long ago it was nearing being inconsequential – years instead of months. "There was a time I think I was afraid of you," Dean admitted. "I thought Crowley would send you after me."

Castiel was shocked at the notion. "No more, I hope? I wouldn't hurt your pinky – wouldn't take a penny from you, either. And Crowley couldn't force me, anyway; he doesn't have anything I want."

Dean remembered the cold of last night, and of the things that Castiel had so earnestly wanted then. Still wanted now. And he was right: Crowley had nothing to offer anymore.

"After this is over," Dean said slowly, "We'll leave one another alone. And it'll be finished."

"What will?"

"Us, I mean. You won't have to worry about what I do anymore."

"Do you imply that I think of you?" Castiel asked. "At any rate I suppose this is a better end than that – what happened months ago."

"It's more of a professional thing than a way to settle things between us," Dean defended.

"Professional obviously. We're not held here because of love or – affection," Castiel supplied. "But we're not ashamed to mention it and we can talk as if we're friends. I'd say we're not. We never really got the chance to be friends, did we?"

"We were _friendly_," Dean added.

Castiel agreed, "But we could never act like another couple could – might just be disposed for friendliness even if it's something else. Or we genuinely liked one another's company at some point," He raised an eyebrow at Dean like the idea was preposterous.

"Sounds pretty far-fetched," Dean said, smiling. The anger and confusion he felt with Castiel yesterday had simpered away, in hiding or defeat he didn't know. But it was warm out; a tantalizing version of an Indian summer that made everyone shed their wool and fur overcoats, take off their gloves, unravel their scarves and linger in doorways and open windows, scenting the air to wonder if this was a permanent state or a trick for Nature to draw them out. Dean still had a scarf wrapped tight around his neck, and Castiel, oblivious to cold it seemed, was the least dressed of everyone on the street; a light jacket with a white shirt, one of his blue ties. It could have been May 31st for him.

This was better than stony silence or aggravation. He was glad Castiel had rationalized it and it was true – there was enough of Castiel left to him that Dean could sidestep what he had done wrong, and remember him first as a person; decent at all other times except for the incident that drove them away. In the sun and some state of happiness he no longer made Dean accuse him of an imposter, and he was nearly comfortable walking beside him despite a background chest pain.

There was nothing more to say about them in this state, and Dean could imagine them being companions in such a way for the rest of their lives; never calling on one another unless it was a business or a party; meeting by accident, having a little to say at each interval – though never something profound – and breaking away again for months, years at a time. They might even live like that, if Castiel and his family decided to move to Venice. Castiel said that they could, but not that it was in their future; surely they had more in New York with their shop and neighbors than in some Californian town. It gave him a strange feeling to imagine it, being either so far away or so far removed, but it didn't feel like a rejection, so it had to have been a hesitant approval, instead.

Crowley's estate appeared down the street. "Try not to say anything if you can help it," Dean said.

"There's nothing much I have left to say to him," In front of them the medieval looking building loomed. With another lingering glance at Castiel, Dean reached out his hand and pressed the call button.

They were let in by some attractive servant, once Dean had given his name and Castiel was scrutinized for a moment. "He's in his study," she told them, opening the doors into the house. The interior seemed to have been redecorated; the walls had been repainted a cold looking white. There were still dozens of pictures on the walls, and the parlor and sitting rooms they passed reminded Dean of art galleries. Trailing behind the servant he paused, recognizing the wooden doors half hidden in the wall. "Wait a minute, this is the office," Dean said, pointing. Castiel and the woman looked back to him.

"The _summer_ office," the servant clarified.

Dean started his pace again, clenching his jaw. "Does Crowley have one for autumn, too?"

"Of course not," the woman said without looking back. They turned down another hallway, strolled by a bay window littered with plush cushions. "That would be ridiculous."

Castiel's shoulders skirted forward as he snorted. Their eyes met for a moment and Dean came away from it with a wry chink in his mouth, just as the woman in front of them threw open the white, gold trimmed French doors that led to Crowley's supposed summer study.

It was extravagant in a different manner from his _other_ office. The first one Dean had seen was dark, sprawling with books, overlooking the backyard. This room had an entire back wall made up of windows; hardly a piece of plaster in between the frames, stretching from floor to a twelve foot ceiling. Crowley sat in the middle of the room on a sofa, jade colored cushions with gold plated legs holding it up. Most of the room was gold-trimmed; the doors, the wall molding, the panes, and furniture. Everything else was pearly white, from the tile to the curtains billowing in the corners of the room.

Lion's den indeed, Dean thought, hearing the door softly shut behind them just as Crowley gestured for them to come closer – there was a couch opposite of him, just as extravagant. Dean sank into it, eyes cast to the right where the windows showed lush trees swaying, and a tall fence leading to another estate's yard. Castiel stood still, until Crowley widened his eyes and muttered, "Sit," to him. He fell not onto the other side of the sofa, but the middle, just out of reach of Dean.

Crowley didn't make a show of looking too interested in the pair he had in his company now. He leaned his head on his hand, propped up at the arm of the couch. To his side there was a small end table that held a polished bowl of apples and a wide glass of some awfully expensive, awful tasting scotch.

"I don't think I asked you to bring a guest," Crowley said, eyes still on Castiel.

"I had him with me when you told me about this whole plot," Dean said as evenly as he could, "It's fitting to have me here when it's finished."

"And you swear of course to the upmost secrecy?"

"Like any other time we've met," Castiel said stonily. "I've done nothing to imply otherwise." Dean didn't look at him but he was sure that now Castiel's face would be solidified into an unreadable, chilling mask.

"Nothing indeed, two of you are loyal to each other to a fault," Crowley muttered, grabbing his drink. "Though I suppose it has obvious perks."

"Crowley," Dean interjected. "We came here to discuss something with you."

"Ah, yes, I imagine you want to take in the news and rush home to pack." He stood up and wandered to the eastern wall. There was a table there, white and gold and sparkling like the rest of the room. He opened a drawer and took out some small sheets of paper, back obscuring Dean from deciphering any more. "You've both done enough for me to let you go," he said, standing in front of Dean. He handed over a sheet as small as a business card. It had the address of a house in Bay Ridge, Dean's old neighborhood. He recognized it at once.

He'd never known where Lucifer lived; very few people did, and whenever he had arranged meetings with Dean or anyone else Dean knew it was always this building. Some of the rooms had cement walls and not a stitch of furniture, others were as well furbished as Crowley's house; depending on which you ended up in spelt out for you whether Lucifer was giving you a job or making a negotiation, or were doomed to leave either bloody or in a body bag. It was a sprawling complex, full of rooms and gunmen – his headquarters, more or less.

"This is it," Dean asked dumbly.

"End of the line there," Crowley said, settling back into his seat. "In one way or another."

"I appreciate your confidence," Dean drawled, "But this place houses an armada. Even _if_ I managed to kill him I'd never make it out alive."

"Well I would like to think of that as not my problem,"

"Crowley," Castiel interjected harshly. It seemed to make the curtains billow out behind them.

"– But," Crowley reiterated, glancing at Castiel, "If you would let me finish before interrupting like some untrained dog I have some news that might be of use to you."

"Go on," Dean said after a moment.

"This isn't the first time we've talked about Lucifer. Specifically you, Dean – I hope your memory hasn't suffered that you forgot."

Dean recalled some other instances – back when he'd been ordered to snuff out Arturi and ruin Meg's car as a threat. "You mentioned a massacre," he said.

"Good to know your upstairs head is still functional."

"I don't understand –"

Crowley cut Castiel off again. "I was under the impression that you knew everything Dean did." Dean pointedly kept his gaze unfaltering and aimed at Crowley.

"He was never coerced to tell me anything," Castiel said darkly, though Dean felt the tone was for the both of them. "I figured that your order to kill Lucifer was about all I needed to know."

Crowley glared at him a moment. "You are moving with him, still?"  
>"Of course," Dean swallowed.<p>

"Then I suppose any other information would have no use to you, though it is something of a surprise that your friend there wouldn't want to _share_." He exaggerated the word that implied an inside reference that Castiel and Crowley held, but Dean did not. He felt anger, but this time aimed at Crowley, perhaps for being the most natural recipient in the room. "Let me ask you a question: Where were you on Valentine's Day two years ago?"

"1929 – at home, obviously. Why –" Castiel paused, Dean imagined his eyes going wide. "…I see." Another pause descended. Finally, "And that's what you would like to do?"

"Hardly, I'm no copy-cat. But," Crowley leaned forward, and the two of them were as drawn in. "What Capone had done to Moran's members is absolute child's play compared to what I have planned."

"When is it?" Dean said. Crowley abandoned looking at the other man, handed Dean another paper; the first had the where, the second, so the two papers if ever found would seem arbitrary Dean guessed, had that Tuesday's date. Under that it merely said _'noon'_.

"I would like a bullet in Luciano Martenelli's skull before lunch. You will too; your train leaves at one thirty."

"Where's our tickets?" Crowley smiled, and Dean expected him to pull out a bundle of expressway passes, but he merely leaned back and took a sip of his drink.

"That's begging for trouble," he said. "Can't have that. No – all you have to do is gather your… fellow passengers and go to Penn Station. Pick the ticket booth with the man who looks sort of like, hm, how should I put this… a bit like a trout. You might have been on a job with him, I can't recall. Big, bear-like, can't miss him." He took another drink. "He'll know of course, that you did what I've ordered and didn't just twiddle your thumbs an extra hour and a half because I will have wired him myself."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "And how will you know so soon?"

Crowley smiled again, lips stretched thin; it was a horrifying smile, and he'd do well to never see it again.

"Because," he began, basking in the fantasy of the don's assassination, "The second you kill Lucifer, _everyone_ will know."

Dean felt his heart thud, not painfully this time, but with anxiety. He pushed it down; he'd never felt scared so soon before a job – but Tuesday, Tuesday by noon. That was hardly three days away.

"No questions?" Dean didn't move. "Good. I think that's all that needs to be said; you two are free to go – well, almost." They stood and Crowley sent Castiel another pointed look. "You, of course, could have left ages ago."

That time Dean looked over at Castiel. His face was grim and emotionless. "My own status is irrelevant in this meeting," he said. "There's no point in addressing it."

"Always a fun one. Well," he moved his hand in a mix of a wave and a shooing motion, and the two of them started towards the door. They were almost to the threshold when Crowley spoke up again:

"Oh, and one other thing." They slowly turned around, Dean wondered if he would have yet another job to do, or if Crowley had a gun drawn on them. But instead he was in the same pose on the couch that they had left some seconds ago.

"Yes?" Dean said prudently.

"There was a jewelry show – some historic French pieces carried from the Versailles rooms, I believe, making its way through the city on a traveling exhibit in the Metropolitan."

"Let me guess," Dean deadpanned. "It was stolen."

"Smart as always," Crowley said it like an insult. "Roughly twenty pounds worth, most of it was precious metals instead of gemstones so the cost of it was only one million dollars, more or less."

"Of course,"

Crowley topped off his drink with a crystal holder. "It'll bring some curious visitors to the museum. It's almost a social service."

"And you want me to, what? Go to every pawn shop in the city?"

"No, I was lucky enough to get a buyer who's paid me half the value already. A bit of a kleptomaniac with a personal collection, I think? Or a rather impressive trader. I just need someone to take it from point A to point B."

"Me," Dean said.

"No," Crowley pointed his drink to Castiel. "Him."

Castiel made no motion, or Dean beat him to it. "No," he spat. "Absolutely not. You had your fun, but he's paid his debt to you. He doesn't have to –"

"I'll do it." Castiel said, looking at Crowley head on; Dean's devastated stare at him was lost. "It doesn't seem to be challenging work," Castiel prompted.

"Not for someone like you," Crowley said. "Brilliant. The buyer just needs a place to pick up the purchase. Preferably her home?" Castiel nodded, eyes squinted in a severe expression, Dean mostly an ignored fixture between him and Crowley. The other pulled out yet another bit of paper, holding it out for Castiel.

He walked over, took it from him, and peered down at the words on the page. "…Her?" he said at length.

"That's right. Send her a message when you've found an appropriate time frame."

Dean had a guess as to who 'she' was. He grit his teeth. "Are we done here?" Dean said impatiently, trying to gain back some control in the conversation. The other two turned to him, as if just remembering that he was in the room at all.

"Yes, I suppose so," Crowley said after a moment. "Chances are I won't be seeing either of you off – try not to get killed, right?"

"Well, if you insist," Dean growled. He grabbed the shoulder of Castiel's suit and tugged, trying to pry the other man's gaze from his boss, his stance from the room. "Come on,"

Castiel, face still unreadable, stared down Crowley for a moment more. "…Have a good night Crowley." He sounded somewhat bewildered. "And, thank-you."

"It's been fun, love. Now, get on." Castiel slowly turned his back on Crowley, finally going into step besides Dean. Together they silently walked out of the mansion for the very last time.

The moment they had reached the end of the driveway Dean spoke. "What the hell was that?" he asked.

"Crowley was –"

"Crowley offered you a job and you took it!" He had his finger pointed accusingly at Castiel, who was disturbingly unbothered by his outburst. He wilted at the lack of response. "You didn't have to, Cas. I thought that you didn't want to, anymore!" He bit the inside of his cheek and crossed his arms. "Just… just my job, and that's it. You said it yourself, that was it."

Castiel wrapped his fingers around the black fence surrounding Crowley's house. "He was talking about Bela, wasn't he?" Dean asked. Castiel looked out at the lavish gardens, the trimly cut trees of the yard, then looked down at his shoes. It was all the answer he needed. "And you're sure you didn't –"

"I wouldn't," Castiel said sharply. "I _can't." _

"Can't what?"

Castiel worried his lip. "You told me you've been with women before, didn't you? You could get married this second if you wanted."

"I – well, yes, but I don't see what that's got anything to do with –" Castiel looked at him.

"Apparently I'm just 'not the marrying type'. I can't switch like you, God knows I've tried but... I'm stuck." He furrowed his eyebrows, then pushed away from the yard, walking back the way they had come. Dean stumbled behind him.

"You mean that?" Dean asked.

"Don't know why I'd lie about it."

"You never mentioned –"

"We were together. I had no reason to." Dean frowned, wished that Castiel would look at them. It was true, they had never talked about it. He should have been able to piece it together when they had first gotten together – when Castiel had only mentioned coming on to one other person before despite looking how he did. Dean couldn't help but wonder what Castiel would do for the rest of his life; find someone else, he supposed. Someone who wasn't Bela, and that might have been better, even if it didn't improve Dean's mood. Castiel continued: "It's… irrelevant, anyway. Came to terms with it ages ago. But Bela doesn't care for me in whatever way you're thinking of, and even if she did…" he trailed off. "I'm sorry I still couldn't keep my word to you." He met Dean's eyes, and they had returned to a guarded. "But for what it's worth, I don't believe Crowley was being intentionally malicious just then."

Dean tilted his head. "How do you mean?"

"That job he offered – there was a purpose for it."

"Yeah, to make a quick million." They crossed the street together.

"Not just that. The jewelry… he was looking at me as if I was expected to understand. As if there was another reason for it. Does that make sense to you?"

"Not really."

Castiel swallowed, and stared ahead at the well paved streets. Night had descended; still winter, it came harsh and suddenly, and the bright street lights offered only brief reprieves on the lonely road they walked down. "Tell me, Dean. How familiar are you with the last line of Russian tsars?"

**xxxx**

The paper Crowley had given Castiel had two affixed addresses: One was to the eventual owner of the stolen jewels, one Bela Talbot of course. Dean believed Castiel, the two times he had said their relationship was business only. Despite that he was struck with the oddest slap of jealousy at the thought that it was her lips against Castiel's collar; her perfume seeping into his clothes. It wouldn't have been the first time Bela had made that sort of move on a man, without meaning a lick of it, but even fleeting attraction, lust in thought or even brainless action, was enough to make him hate her even more.

The second, more important notice at the moment, displayed a particular unused manufacturing building, where the stolen goods had been hidden in some particular spot by a round of impressive thieves. It was possible that Bela or any buyer hadn't been available until after the collection had been stolen.

Immediately after Crowley's meeting, they caught a train into the hiding place; it was in Bergen, of course, and for a brief travel between two stops the car had been empty, and Dean had, eyes glazed over, thoughts elsewhere, almost squeezed Castiel's hand tight in his own, forgetting their place.

The streets were mostly empty when they reached the other side of the borough. They still hadn't talked much, for one reason or another. Castiel was as pensive as Dean, and still hadn't indulged him in his comment about Russian history, so he supposed that whatever he meant would meet its own explanation soon. It was hard to be patient, but with immediate mortality not half a week away, it wasn't like he didn't have his own troubles to soak up his concerns. "How do you think they hid everything?" Dean asked in a low voice when they were halfway to their destination.

"Not well enough, I bet," Castiel muttered. "They probably brought it in a suitcase, or some burlap sacks, and you can't lug that through a car without getting a look."

"Well, whatever they hid it with is what we have, too," Dean slid his hand into his jacket and fished out a cigarette. "So it'll have to do."

"Maybe," Castiel bit his lip, and glanced around. "I've been around here," he noted, inspecting some of the shabby buildings they were passing. Dean wondered if he meant that he went this way when he was heading off to that warehouse Balthazar had died in, but after a moment Castiel said, "Some friends live here."

"Oh?"

"They have a cleaning company; soaps and detergents and things. We get supplies from them for our shop. They should be a few doors over…" He moved forward at a slightly faster pace and stopped about a hundred feet away, in front of a dark building.

"Well they aren't open for business this late," Dean said, inhaling a mouthful of smoke and pushing it back out into a blue-tinted cloud. Castiel looked back at him.

"I said they're a friend, remember?" Dean couldn't quite tell, but Castiel might have smiled when he said that. "There's an entrance around back that has a call bell. Stay here and don't get noticed. It'll be just a moment." Castiel vanished down a darkened side alley, until he was invisible, and Dean was alone. It was odd to say that he stay unnoticed if there didn't seem to be a soul around to stare at him anyway. He was barely illuminated, being right between two far flung street lamps. His only fraction of light came from some of the lit up apartment windows and the red end of his cigarette. The moon was shining over on the eastern bay waters at this hour, and the sky was as black as the street Castiel had walked down. The man could be up in smoke, for all he knew, could have cut it running to the old building a few blocks down, stolen some pearls, and made his own way; Crowley certainly wasn't holding him down like he was Dean, had explicitly said so, too.

The notion dug at him, especially when he realized that there was a time where the concept of Castiel vanishing had coinciding with Hell freezing over and pigs taking flight. He almost wanted to ask what had changed, but, well, he knew.

Dean took a long, last drag from his cigarette before stomping it out in a gentle crunch. In the last few days he had found himself on the wrong end of a leap of faith, Castiel on the other. They were companions again for the time being, but there was a rift, a crack, and Dean had orchestrated all of this for a decent farewell, but now with the jewelry and being close to the other man he was starting to think that leaving Castiel for good wasn't such a freeing motion.

He heard a series of footfalls from the side of the brick building. Castiel had reappeared, a real, triumphant smile on his pink mouth.

"I have something for you," he said, and he handed Dean a pair of long, opaque plastic bags attached to hangers.

"They're what I've always wanted," Dean said. "What are they for?" They started walking down the road again, towards the abandoned warehouses – one of the abandoned ones, at least. There were dozens in this part of the city.

"The sheaves can hold over thirty pounds of clothes each. I should know, since our shop delivers them in the same bags."

"So they were up? What'd you tell them?" They fell into step besides each other, shoulders brushing at every other stride. Castiel shrugged.

"Some emergency job, a bag ripped, delivery first thing in the morning and we ran low."

"They believed it?"

"It wasn't the first time I or Gabriel or Anna have come by, asking for something for the shop. It's a rather productive business, you know. It has to be."

"Right." Dean, however, didn't miss the note of upbeat pride in Castiel's words; he was a rather skilled tailor. It had been the first compliment Dean had, if begrudgingly, bestowed on him when they met. And it had been proven again more than once. Sometimes, however, Dean forgot that Castiel truly did love what he did; he was talented because he was passionate about such things. So far Dean hadn't had the pleasure.

"Do you imagine doing anything else for a living?" They paused on a street corner before crossing; only three blocks or so, then they'd take one more right and find a way to break into the building – it had to be somewhat locked up, otherwise vagrants would be able to walk in and find what had been hidden there.

"Why? Getting ideas?"

"Hardly. Just – you've had other jobs, but you don't seem to like them."

"I like work," Castiel said blithely. "Honestly, I do; it's nice to do something, create, in a way, even if all you're doing is cleaning some bolts and nails – you're helping a system along and, in any case, it's better than being completely self-indulgent."

"Oh, I think most people would disagree with you."

Castiel checked one of the signs on the street corner and took the right they were supposed to. The old factories were black boxes casting shadows comprised of broken windows and dripping rust along torn edging. It was an urban haunting, and the two of them were soon creeping past the tumbling outer gates and into building number seventeen in the row; the only one Dean saw that still had an uncut padlock attached to the front door, and had most of the windows still in place.

"What do you do," Castiel muttered, stepping closer to the door, "If you do nothing? You can't listen to the radio and read and visit friends for eighty years. Now how do you suppose you're going to get this open?" Dean handed Castiel his laundry bags back and crouched. He hadn't brought lockpicks, just a small pen knife. Then again – he tugged at the lock, felt the oxidized metal grip the skin of his fingers and tug.

"Get back to me in fifty-three years and I'll tell you how bored I am." He stood up again, looking around. "This is a bit of warning, Cas – I'm about to do something you might not have thought of – something even your crime novels don't say."

"Oh?" There was hardly enough light to tell what was what on the ground beneath him, but he saw Castiel have something like an encouraging smirk on his face, a bemused prompt to continue.

"Stand back, if you don't mind," Just as Castiel slid three feet from the door, Dean picked up a stone the size of his fist and bashed it against the loop of the lock; the metal clanking against the door once, then twice as Dean hit it again and a break appeared in the metal. He jimmied the rest of it open, letting the broken, rusted padlock and chain collect down on his feet.

The beaten, dented door swung open before them, showing nothing but darkness.

"Don't even see why you need lockpicks," Castiel offered, moving in closer to Dean.

"I don't, it's more to protect my dignity, I think. And my ears."

"As long as we don't find another, unlocked, entrance here, I think this method is fine."

"Shit," It was too dark to see. "Should've brought a lantern, I guess." Dean reached in his pocket for his lighter. He heard a hiss behind him – a dull flash of a match coming to life. It only just illuminated the small standing area around them in dull shadows, but it was enough for them to work around the fallen pieces of sheet metal along the factory floor. Shapes made loose, dream-like impressions in the distance; features crammed along the west side of the wall near rows of wide, plated windows.

"Do we know where they hid it?" Dean squinted into the distance; this place had been an arms factory, once. Not that Dean was around when the built the place over a decade ago during the Great War. It had chugged on afterwards for a few years, still exporting to other nations or supplying the navy ships down in Connecticut with proper armory, but all that was long gone now. All that was left for some old machines that didn't work anymore; abandoned time cards and dust; a few broken windows where someone might have thrown a rock or snuck in through. Most of that was speculation, since all of their light came from the small flames and the lunar glow that eerily drifted into the cracks and corners of the building from the windows above. On the eastern wall, high above their heads and the ragged mechanical shadows, he saw a scaffolding inching along the outside of the perimeter.

"I was figuring under some floorboards, but of course there's no wood here." Castiel's match went out and their light disappeared. Their eyes having adjusted somewhat, Dean led the both of them down to the other end of the building. "I think this row of factories had a main office building. Probably torn down now. Anything stored here is on the floor here, somewhere." Castiel struck a new one a few moments later once they reached the foot of the staircase. The first two steps had twisted off, onto the ground. Dean turned and saw him craning his neck to see the metal above. He gave Dean a look, guessing at his thoughts.

"Well, who'd be stupid enough to go up there?"

Castiel's face was shadowed, threatening in the warm, partial illumination of the light. He pursed his lips and blew the match out.

"Here," Dean reached out blindly, touching Castiel's wrist and grabbing it, moving it closer to himself. Castiel's fingers twitched and he could feel the matchbook in the other man's palm. "I'll trade you," he muttered, taking the small box away and replacing it with his lighter. "I'm going up there."

Castiel, still invisible in the darkness, wrapped his fingers around Dean's lighter, a few of Dean's digits still spilling part-way into the center of his hand, getting rolled up with the loose grip. "It could break. The scaffolding up there."

"It hasn't been closed more than three years," Dean glanced above them even though he still couldn't see anything except for the places where the natural night sky was blocked out from the suspending metal. "If you're going to hide something, you'd best be where no one would bother looking."

Castiel sighed, drew his hand away. "If it starts to feel… weak, I suppose,"

"I'm not exactly looking forward to going up there."

"I can do it," Castiel offered.

"No, you search the floor here."

"I told Crowley I would get the jewelry for him,"

"But we're doing this together, aren't we?" He heard, from not two feet away, Castiel swallow.

Castiel flicked the lighter open; let it shine dully between the two of them.

"Yes," he said. "We are." He glanced up to the metal stairs again. "But let me watch you while you're up there, at least." Dean started off towards the broken bottom of the steps, gripping one hand on the guardrail. He had to glare down at the steps to make sure he knew which one was the stable starting point, and what was merely a shadow playing off of the flickering light.

"Fair enough. Catch me if I fall, right?"

"Of course," Castiel said, bemused. Dean tried to push himself off the ground, onto the first step. It sank under his feet, but didn't break. The next handful of steps were the same way, and his shoes echoed on the metal as he ascended. He reached a section of steps too far away from the flame light or the blue of the high windows, where he had to test out every space in front of him with his foot, making sure that a place he was about to step was even there at all.

So far the most ominous thing was the occasionally fallen pieces of handrail, or the steps that creaked worryingly. The catwalk was riskier – the worn metal having more surface area and even less support. He reached the top step after a minute or two of slow climbing, his pulse thudding away against his neck. He was twenty, thirty feet off the ground. He turned his head over his shoulder and saw a small orb of bronze light far, far down.

"Are you okay?" Castiel's voice rose up, deep and distant. Dean slowly became aware that his legs were shaking.

"I, uh," He gulped, found a railing and gripped the thin support tightly. "I'm fine." He tried to remain still for a few more moments. "As I walk can you, can you follow me down there?"

"I can't see you," Dean reached into a pocket for the matches he had slipped there, and lit one. "I don't know how many I have," Castiel said, a moment later.

"Well, talk to me," Dean said quickly, examining the grimy brick wall. Against the light of the match it appeared as if it was dripping oily, dark fluid He knocked on it and got a dull sound for his efforts, knuckles coming away clean and dry.

"About?"

"Anything, a book, your work, the weather," There was a few moments of silence from below. Dean couldn't bear looking down again.

"You sound nervous," Castiel supplied, finally.

"This might not have been my best idea, I'll admit."

"You aren't afraid of heights, too, are you?" Castiel said. He heard rough shuffling beneath him and figured Castiel was keeping up with his slow, careful steps along the catwalk.

"Hardly," Dean grumbled. His knuckles shook with the effort of grasping onto the guardrails. He tried to gauge himself as about a third of the way through the scaffolding, but when he slid forward another two feet and the rail suddenly gave way to open air, he backed up against the bricks, trying not to make noise even as the sharp movement sent the metal careening towards him by a few terrifying degrees. The match flew from his other hand, dropping onto the ground far, far below after a few seconds of waiting. Dean wondered if it had gone out during the fall but still focused on the other side of the factory, where the walkway thankfully ended.

"What was that?" Castiel's tone urgent.

"Nothing, I…" Dean imagined Castiel's voice, separate from his body – he couldn't see it anyway. He trained himself on the slight noises that were far, far away from him; he pretended he could hear Castiel breathe instead of his own panicked inhales. He imagined the nervous flashes of fear – of falling to his death when another, even more dire peril was lurking so close by – the heat travelling, pooling in the base of his spine as merely Castiel standing next to him, sharing warmth like that.

Dean forced himself forward a few more feet, palm flat against the wall now that he knew the railing couldn't be trusted. "How long have you been in business?" Dean asked, desperate for a distraction proper. Castiel's feet banged dully on some metal lying on the factory floor.

"As a tailor?"

"Yes," Dean said, still wandering in the darkness, unwilling to take his hand away from the wall to go digging through the small box crushed in his sweaty fist.

"My Father taught me – you know that."

"I do,"

"When I was, well, I can remember sitting by his feet when I was small, watching him work – he worked out of the house, of course, everyone did." Dean nodded even if no one could see it. He tried to pay attention only to looking for something out of place – some sort of sack or suitcase, the other part of him trying to be lulled by the casual tone of Castiel's voice. "I couldn't have been more than eight when he started teaching me a thing or two. Around sixteen I was ready to start assisting him. I would have, too, if not for the, the bad timing."

"There's never really a good time for a war to break out."

"Oh I'm sure that's not true," Dean's hand dipped suddenly into a type of crack in the brick, surprised himself, and stepped forward, past it. He was almost at the other end, as the line of windows abruptly stopped about six feet ahead. "Once we got here I didn't waste any time in getting back into something I could do well. Got money, got the shop, and that's what I've done for the past let's see, ten years, now."

"Ten whole years," Dean murmured, a bit in awe. "I don't think I've done a single consistent thing for ten years. Nothing like owning a business, at least."

"It's a bit of a milestone, isn't it?" Castiel commented, he sound a little surprised himself. "In retrospect, I mean." Dean stopped at the wall in front of him, managed to finally light another match. "Did you reach the end?"

"Yeah," Dean crouched down, examined several burlap sacks, loose bricks, and a few extraneous pieces he couldn't quite make out. "There's something here. Give me a minute." He shuffled through the materials, breath tight and barely moving in and out of his lungs. He shook the buckets, they didn't rattle. He felt at and turned some of the sacks upside down but was met with crumbs of spackle or dirt – something. But not what they needed.

"Wouldn't it be terrible if you spent all that time up there," Castiel drawled, "And nothing was even there?"

"Why? Did you find something?"

"No, just thinking."

"Right, well," He stood up unsteadily, hand against the brick wall. "There is nothing. Maybe we're not even in the right building."

"The paper said the address was seventeen," Castiel said. "Well, come back down, we'll find it somewhere here."

"Right." Dean slowly turned around, and let his hand drag along the brick, still cautious that he would fall down at any moment, but somewhat calmed now that he knew there were no holes in the metal.

His fingers scraped roughly into the crack in the wall, and he paused. He uncurled his fingers and dug out a light from the damp, partially crushed matchbook, lighting up again. "…That's strange," he said.

"What?"

"Sort of like a cut in the wall. Nothing precise – like someone put bricks up and some chunks of it had come off in the process." He stilled, glanced back to the end of the catwalk where those gallons of paint cans had been lying. He huffed out a humorous breath and strode over to the piles, leafing through the materials before he came away with a heavy metal trowel. His fingers went along the blade and he felt the uneven, dried evidence of some sort of mortar. "Cas! They put it in the wall!"

"Are you sure?"

"Almost. He let the match go out and felt for the breakage again. "I don't think the stuff's had time to set very long," He dug the edge of the trowel into a wide part of the crack, prying it like a lever. "And they knew others would be coming by so if I had to guess they didn't –" He was attacking the wall blindly, and abruptly heard a crack from the mortar, then the soft noise of streams of flakes falling to the ground below. "– Use very strong –" Another stab and a flurried push sent an entire half a brick falling to the ground in a loud clatter. "– Stuff," Suddenly two more bricks had given, shifting in their spots, and Dean wrapped his fingers around them and pulled, the stone coming away like false teeth. He shoved the trowel under one of his arms and lit a match, peering into the small hole he'd created.

He saw a drawstring sack, cheap but thick, and hauled it through the small hole, trying to be as delicate as the small opening would allow.

A minute later, he had the entire bag in his hands – it was surprisingly heavy, not enough to weigh him down, but with the knowledge that it was filled with a million dollars' worth of jewels – he quickly unraveled the bag, reaching blindly into the contents and hoping he would come back with all his fingers intact.

The cold of metal shocked him, and he heard something like rocks settling in a sieve as he moved his hand in deeper. He closed his fingers around a chain and pulled out something that, even in the darkness, had an ethereal color to them.

It was a string of pearls, the strand so long that he could wrap it around his waist twice. "Jesus," he whispered to himself, feeling the heavy smoothness in his palm, wrapped around his fingers and wrists.

"Did you find it?" Castiel asked, startling him.

"Yeah," Dean said, letting the pearls spill back into the bag. He cinched the cord tight and stood again, spotting the gold flicker from the lighter, directly underneath him. "Yeah we found it. Now put the lighter down and catch this." He let the bag drop, and he heard a small exhale of breath instead of a crash. "I'm coming back down," he said, slowly moving back the way he had come.

**xxxx**

The bags were slung heavy between them. They road into Brighton, getting some odd stares; Castiel was straight backed; he didn't look nervous but every once and a while his hand would clench, softly, against the fabric of the dry cleaning bags to affirm what was inside. Looking straight on at the pair of them they were either laundromat workers or just two odd members of one odd city.

"Can I ask you something?" Dean said, once the train had stopped – it was the last run for the night and only a few passengers remained. Their plan now was to go back to Castiel's home – he hadn't brought a suitcase with him, anyway, and it was best to get the jewels somewhere safe. Castiel's most favored novels would have to stay on his table, his clothes in his wardrobe, for just a little longer. In reference to the last few hours it didn't weigh so heavily on Dean's mind.

"Yes, of course." The tolerable weather was gone with the sunlight, and it seemed like the night was too terrible to ever end. Dean's mind could perceive no daybreak, but instead fantasized of a world where he and Castiel would wander down some darkened road as friendly strangers forever. It had the quality of a fever dream, keeping him both warm and terrified.

"Crowley said you had settled your debt to him. I mean, for you and your family."

"He did."

"So, why haven't you left?" Castiel slowed his pace, the long bags draped in his arms like a ceremonial tapestry of a kind.

"Well," He let out a void laugh. "Well the plan was that we'd go together."

"Months ago."

"Months ago," Castiel agreed. "Never occurred to me, I guess. I figured we were all stuck to go together; Crowley did sell the plan to you, I was just… there. And decided to get involved, I suppose. Back when I asked him to come to me with jobs, I was still using that assumption. And by the time my debt was paid, even, I was too preoccupied to talk to him. It just never got settled."

"Do the three of you still plan on going? Of coming with me?" Castiel's mouth twitched, like he wanted to talk but refrained at the last moment. Dean recalled what the other had told him last night. _To go home,_ he said, staring a line past Dean to the flat they used to share.

And Dean said he couldn't give him that.

"I never imagined another plan," Castiel supplied, finally. "I suppose we could always get off at Chicago if you wish, and to be honest I'll miss this City something awful."

"Chicago?" Dean wrinkled his nose.

"It seems to be a popular place to end up."

"Yeah, if you're one for blood in the streets. Brooklyn's a playpen compared to those slums." They crossed the street, and the view of rundown storefronts and squat apartments came into full swing. "You know," Dean muttered, looking down an alleyway between buildings. "If you're willing to stay on the train till Venice, I'll have my brother find somewhere for you – I mean he'll get some sort of job for you guys, even if it's not a spectacular one, guarantee he's made friends with the entire city of Los Angeles."

"I would expect nothing less of your brother." Castiel said lightly. "How is he doing, anyway? I haven't heard of him since…" He swallowed. "Well, anyway, how is he?"

"Good, great. Starting bar exams, soon. Files papers for some firm every few days, might end up there. Has a kid now, too with Jess. It's a boy. James – they call him Jimmy, though."

"I think it's a little early to impose nicknames," Dean felt a smirk come up across his face, and he pointedly turned away from Castiel.

"It's a real tragedy, ain't it?" He thought he heard the other man chuckle; a low, comforting noise, and he was about to say something else when a sound came upon them. It was quiet at first, growing with their steps. A sort of buzz one might hear on a dead radio station; it transformed into the unmistakable collection of human droning. Dean heard cutoff threads of English, much more in misunderstood Russian. He looked down the street, wondering what was around the corner. "Cas, what's –" Castiel was in front of him, bags now shoved haphazardly under an arm like they were rags or old newspapers. He ran forward with a swiftness Dean had never seen before and he, not able to hear or know anything except that it couldn't have been, say, a parade at this hour, ran after him.

Castiel had known first. Had seen or had a not entirely material sense that something, _something_ had happened. Something awful.

Dean rounded the corner and saw smoke. Pools of it, blocking out the depth of the black sky with a miserable, dark gray cloud, denser than the void of missing stars. People were gathered around to watch its source and Dean's eyes slowly shifted down from space to the earth and he saw where the fire had started.

And, well. Could it have been anywhere else?

For a moment the two of them were side by side, slack jawed, watching the flames, the smoke, the throngs of neighbors in suits and night dresses, all of them watching the Novak's tailor shop burn. They both murmured curses under their breath in their respective first languages, glanced at the other; Castiel shoved his bags into Dean's arms, and he darted forward into the crowd, pushing and shoving at the fray; Dean, hardly thinking it, followed the path Castiel was creating behind him.

The fire hadn't just started; in fact, they spotted a long car parked on the sidewalk, the men in uniform, and it appeared that what remained was more of smolderings and ash; only one window – the kitchen – was ablaze now, and some of the pedestrians had a hollow look in their eye, like they'd been watching the show for a long time and had started to grow bored of it. They remained to be sure that the flames wouldn't jump to another house, or because it was impolite.

Castiel went up to a woman, short and emaciated by age, wearing a wool coat. He stooped so he could meet her eye level, spoke gravely, clearly, in words Dean couldn't comprehend. He glanced around nervously, remembering that Castiel had once cautioned him that he wasn't welcome in the vicinity; that people would see his face as a nation, not a person. He tipped the brim of his hat as low as it would go and clutched the bags closer to him, standing not too closely to Castiel.

The old woman garbled something back to him, sounding like she had been weathering whooping cough for twenty years. She pointed to the mouth of the alley on the right side of the house; the place Castiel liked to smoke, where they had begun their journey to the park; where Dean had found Castiel ages later in what was dumb, dumb luck.

Castiel grabbed his suit sleeve and pulled him, stumbling, through the rest of the crowds. There must have been fifty people, if not more, all trying to stay on the sidewalk, a few dangling off ends of the fire car, spilling out into the left side of the road. He stared hard at the buildings surrounding them, the blackened husk of the shop especially for he couldn't help but wonder what this place would be if he had, two years ago now, decided to drive on?

He came back to himself when he nearly ran into Castiel's back. Alien voices flooded his ears again, and he looked to see who Castiel was speaking to.

Gabriel – he looked sick. His skin was porous and he was sweating, swearing, too. He was pointing to the shop behind them, making exaggerated gestures, and finally, after a comment from Castiel – an exasperated one, judging from the tone of voice – Gabriel stepped to the side and showed Anna, holding Misha like an anchor. The two of them, brother and sister, stared but said nothing. After a moment Castiel clasped his hands around her upper arms in a soothing gesture. She had tear tracks down her face illuminated by the burnt glow of the almost dead fire, but she seemed just as composed as Castiel.

Misha mumbled and wriggled in her arms until Anna shifted him, letting him look at Castiel. He immediately threw his small arms around his neck. Castiel cradled him with one arm, pulled Anna in with the other, and Dean looked away then, grabbing the bags closer to him.

The fire wasn't complete destruction; the windows seemed to be gone or at least unusable; holes in the stained wood and brick. The red banner was torn and frayed; no chance of figuring out those Russian letters now, he supposed dully. There might have been some surviving objects in there, but there was no guarantee that the floors would hold human weight; the shop instead looked like a gaping wound on the road, cracked open and vomiting out black air. He shuddered, closed his eyes and felt the heat on his face. He rejected its comfort, knowing the dreadful source.

Someone shoved his shoulder.

"What are you doing here?" Gabriel's accent was harsh and thick. Dean turned to him.

"Castiel and I –"

"– What sort of business do you have with my brother-in-law?" He jabbed his forefinger into Dean's chest and he swallowed, hoping no one was watching them. He bet Castiel and Anna hadn't told Gabriel about Friday.

"He – I approached him the other day," Dean said quickly, trying to look Gabriel head on, even as his eyes flared cruelly and he saw the man's lip start to curl into a snarl. He was just short of petrifying, and it was hard to concentrate on an excuse. "Talked about getting his things back from me – from my apartment and we were on our way to…"

"Where the hell were you for half a year?" Gabriel interjected. "Castiel was –" He stopped, furrowing his eyebrows. "After you kicked him out, a week after Balthazar was shot? You think you had the right to do that sort of thing to him?"

"I think Cas old enough to figure what's right for him or not," Dean said evenly.

"Cas – _Cas_. I don't think you should call him that. Matter of fact, I don't think you should be here at all. People might talk," he said pointedly. He reached for the laundry bags. "I'll take these, then, if they belong to –"

"Gabriel," Castiel said suddenly, standing by his brother. "These – these are Dean's."

"Then why are they here?" He pulled back, nodded to him. "Why is _he_ here?"

Castiel clenched his jaw, not in anger but resolution. He settled a hard look at Dean, almost a glare, from under his eyelashes. In the firelight it was uncomfortable – unnatural – like a specter was watching him. "Because we had to settle something."

"And is it?"

Castiel glanced to their store, their home, and his gaze crumbled again. "No," he said, still looking past them before moving back towards his sister. "Come over here, before everyone sees you two," he said over his shoulder. Slowly the two of them shuffled over. Dean tried not to let Gabriel's figure fall into his line of sight.

Anna looked over to him, surprised. "Dean," she said, almost reverently. "This is a… surprise," She looked to Gabriel, then back.

"What happened here?" Dean asked.

"A fire, smartass," Gabriel muttered crossly, staring at the building.

Anna shifted Misha, who was back in her arms. "It was probably two hours ago. The shop had closed and Gabriel was out at the corner store, talking, smoking – it's sort of a ritual for him." She bit her lip. "I was upstairs when I heard a crash, like someone had broken a window. I started to head downstairs when I saw the – the fire." She paused, then slowly put Misha down. He seemed unbothered, though Dean saw wet tracks on his face, too. He stood, swaying, holding Anna's hand for support. "The flames were everywhere," she whispered, quiet so that her son couldn't hear. "There was no way to get out so I headed back upstairs, closed the door.

"I got everything important – money, our citizenship papers, business license, all of that – some jewelry, Castiel, your lockbox." She said to her brother. "I shoved your mattress out of the window, all the blankets and pillows after it. Well, besides for one – I tied one around Castiel's desk and used that to get a ways down with Misha – we jumped the rest of the way, about a story." She shuddered, fingers ensnaring Misha's tightly. "I wish I could say that was exhilarating or something, but I'm getting sick just remembering it." She glanced down to her son, who was watching the many legs of the crowd down the street. "I think I might have hurt my ankle, and I rolled too fast and ripped apart my dress and my knees to go with it but, we survived." She looked uneasily back towards the shop. The fire had gone out now, finally. "I'm just praying this was the worst part."

"The worst part?" Dean asked, frowning.

"Well we have hardly half a grand of insurance on the place," she said. "A lot of people might think we did this on – on purpose, so that we'd get the money back."

"Maybe if someone hadn't made it…" Gabriel trailed off, shaking his head. "As it stands now our story is too neat – even if we have no clothes, no food, and most of our equipment is charred beyond recognition, never mind use." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "An entire decade we've been here, you know." He seemed to be speaking to Dean. "Not like it matters when money's concerned. We know that."

"The police spoke to me," Anna said, crossing her arms, hunching in the cold. "They said we needed to head down to the police station soon, make statements to file into the insurance company. One of the neighbors, the Barkovs, said they could give us the spare room in their flat for a few weeks. Thanks," she said to Gabriel, when he shucked off his jacket and handed it to her.

"Weeks," Castiel said, looking at Dean. "Gabriel, we can't possibly stay –"

"Do you have any better ideas?" Castiel opened his mouth, but Gabriel interrupted. "And don't mention him, either."

"You can let your own brother-in-law speak," Dean shot back.

"But God forbid he tries to help you."

"Help me? I –" Dean's eyes traced movement in the background, behind Gabriel. "Shit." He started to move forward.

Misha, having evidently broken out from Anna's grip, was meandering through the crowd and the firemen, steadily heading towards the smoldering remains of the building. Dean didn't think to look over his shoulder or call for Anna's attention, and by the time he had conscious thought of what he was doing he was in the middle of dodging away from one of the officers who was reminding him to not get any closer.

He reached Misha just some steps before he could touch the front shop door. The glass looked like it had been cast in shadow and faded geometric patterns. The large window to the left had broken open from the explosive that had been tossed in, leaving a spider web of cracks. The smell of char and burnt items that were never supposed to meet destruction in such a manner left Dean's stomach queasy, and he kneeled down next to Misha almost too easily because of that, heard those laundry bags fall in a clatter between them as he spun Misha around by the shoulders and didn't spare them a glance.

"Are you crazy?" he asked. He was sure it was supposed to come out more harsh and demanding, and yet he couldn't manage to make his voice any louder than a murmur, almost soothing. Misha looked at him disinterestedly and tilted his head to look over his shoulder, back at the ruined front door.

"Our stuff's in there," he said. "We need it."

It might have been the first time Dean had heard him speak an entire sentence, and it made him wince; what type of four year old thought of 'we', anyway? What concept could a toddler have about need? Misha looked up at him, eyes rounded and indigo; he understood very little, but the things he vaguely knew of the real world were nightmarish, haunting – the innocent rawness had been scratched out from Misha's stare, and he turned back, slowly, to look at what was no longer his home.

"We need it," he said again.

"I… yeah, I know, it's very important. But you can't go in there right now." _Maybe not ever again._

"Why not?" Dean glanced over the boy's head; remembering what it had been like when he was this height, everything so much bigger and not his size.

"Because you have to stay with your Mom right now," Dean said finally, looking back at him. "And your Dad and your uncle – they need you very much,"

"What about you?" Misha squinted at him, and Dean wondered if he could remember who he was – he hadn't seen him in half a year or more, had forgotten how fast some kids could grow. He wondered if Misha was always this talkative now, then figured he would never find out.

He heard footsteps behind him. "Misha?" Anna's voice rang out. Dean took his hands off his shoulders and Misha vanished out of his sight. When he had slowly, carefully gathered up the bags and stood up again Anna had him cradled tight. She looked at him in a grim, shameful way. "I'm so sorry about that, usually he –"

"Misha's a good kid," Dean said quickly. The boy turned his head just enough that he could make out his eye watching him. Wondering if he was about to get him into trouble. "He just… wanted his stuff."

"Maybe tomorrow," Gabriel had managed to perch by Anna's side to talk to his son. "But not right now." His voice had gone gentle, accent almost negligible as unrefined passion was sucked out of him. "Right now we're going to talk to someone."

"A police officer," Anna said, stroking Misha's hair.

"Find your son?" A man had walked over, black uniform and cap on. "Good. The station's a mile north, so it's best we go now. Best we went hours ago, really, but I don't decide when the fires start." He didn't have a Russian accent like the neighbors surrounding the shop did; sounded more like he lived on Dean's side of Coney Island, or Midwood or somewhere more European like that.

"Neither do we." Gabriel said grimly.

"Of course not," The police officer adopted a condescending tone and glanced towards Anna. "Come along now, Miss Novikov. Bring your husband, too. And…" He spared a glance at Castiel's silent, staring figure, situated behind them. "Whoever he is."

"It's Novak," she grunted to the police officer's back. She gave Dean a look that restated her unsavory feelings of the man. Gabriel moved an arm across her shoulder, appraised Dean expectantly, though he had nothing to say. "We'll see you," Anna supplied at Dean's silence, and she started to walk forward, pulling Gabriel along with her before he could say something to him.

Castiel stepped forward some paces, but no further. He watched his family slowly retreating through the crowd. Smoke clung to the air that they breathed, coming out in frozen puffs from the cold. It wasn't the smell of tobacco or a relaxed position in front of a fireplace. Instead of familiarity or comfort the scent made Dean's skin prickle; he would have reached for a cigarette himself to drown out the rest of the air, but the bags restricted his arms and, anyway, lighting up right now seemed disrespectful. "Aren't you going?" Dean asked instead.

Castiel's shoulders sagged a bit, and he turned his head over his shoulder to peer at the shop. It was dark now, finally. People were starting to go home. "I was under the impression that we had some unfinished business." The laundry bags had grown like weights in Dean's arms. So close to a treasure trove and he felt nothing but a burden. Of course they had unfinished business; goodbyes to sort out. If they had bothered to stay away from each other months ago none of this would have happened. _None_ of it.

"Do you think this was an accident?" Dean asked.

"I wish, more than anything, that it was."

"But is it?" Castiel sighed.

"…I'm inclined to say no." Dean glanced at him. Castiel had his arms out limply at his sides. They faced the road, examining the people, instead of the building. It was easier, Dean knew. "We're used to the annual broken window, graffiti – children doing stupid things. Everyone expects that. But this? No one jokes around like this."

"Who do you think did it?"

"Honestly? I don't know." Castiel blinked, jaw tight. "And of course we won't be able to prove it. We may never know."

"No, Cas," Dean pivoted slightly, standing in front of the other. "We can figure this out. I can –"

"Hey! You!" The same officer was shouting over to them, across the street now. His voice was impatient and gruff. The rest of the Novaks watched on.

"…You should go," Dean said haltingly. "Before you get in trouble. Here," Dean tried to hand the bags over, drooping unevenly now as the jewels shifted. But Castiel just shook his head. "Why? They're your responsibility."

"Ours, you told me, I thought. And with so many officers around?"

"Castiel!" Anna shouted to him, waved her free arm over. Castiel's eyes flickered a moment, and he took a step towards them before meeting Dean's gaze one more time. His eyebrows furrowed in desperation as he pressed the bags insistently to Dean's chest, as if to make sure they stayed in his arms. The thick material of the bags were taciturn and Castiel's skin did not touch his; he only grew colder.

"I'll meet you here, right here, tomorrow. Five, no later than six. Bring those and – and a spare suit jacket. A winter one that you won't miss."

"Cas, I –"

"Promise me, please." Dean bit on the inside of his cheek. Castiel's darkened, obscured face was no longer half dead or asleep; he was yearning for him – no, Dean wouldn't trap himself by thinking that – he was yearning for his help. The instructions were ridiculous, and he had thought he was done with cooperating with Castiel. Dean's gaze wandered to the burned shop, then back to the other's face. He swallowed.

"I promise. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Red!" the officer barked. "Get _over_ here!" Castiel slid away from Dean without saying more. Dean kept quiet as the other crossed the street, just thinking to himself that if the officer so much as _touched_ Castiel he'd – the man didn't, of course, lucky for all of them. Dean's trigger finger twitched until he curled his hand up tight. A minute later the Novak family was out of sight.

Slowly, he went back to the building.

The street was just about emptied. Heat still wafted out from the planks of wood.

He believed Castiel's theory that it wasn't an accident; in all honesty he had been hoping he would say that, because he had been thinking the same sort of thing: Fires were tricky; Dean hated them something awful; started a few, but hated them. The trouble now was trying to find out whose fault it was; it could have been a Russian group but – without Balthazar's active participation, he couldn't think of any connection it gave them to a nearby gang. Not that they always needed a reason to start trouble.

Maybe it was someone Castiel had offended while working under Crowley; but still, Castiel never mentioned anything like that while they were together. Dean pursed his lips, and shifted the bags in his arms. Awful things, fires. His mind filled in the blanks, replaced the dark holes with red and orange glows. House fires were cruel – shops and cars were inconvenient and warning, but a house…

His hands clenched in the plastic fabric of the dry cleaning bag: he knew someone clever enough and bitter enough to hang onto a grudge for months and months – and he name was Meg Masters.

It wasn't out of the question. She would always attempt a backlash at someone who had wronged her so long as they were within her reach, or, in this case, someone they were close to. It seemed more than a little far-fetched, a solution of his paranoia and of people knowing about him and Castiel. He was looking for a pattern wrong place.

But there _was_ motive. More than once Dean had even wondered to himself how Meg's revenge would show itself. Because it always seemed to happen to somebody; in blown out, ironic proportions, too. The thing looming maliciously overhead was the fact that this stint could not have been pulled off without the appropriate knowledge. Really, Castiel wasn't a notable someone in the way Benny or Bela or even he was, but someone, somewhere, had to know about him.

At one point in time he and Dean could be seen walking together every day of the week; he had even mentioned him to Adam, if reluctantly and without a last name two years ago. And Benny – he'd never even named Castiel to him, had he? Out of embarrassment or fear of what the other would think, because who would need to know about Castiel, anyway, some Russian tailor? Dean felt guilt roil in his gut; he, of course, knew what Castiel was capable of. Not just with Crowley, but the things he had done before, when he was only a teenager fleeing from home. If someone really wanted to, they could've just asked his goddamn neighbors about a Russian man – they'd get plenty of responses. Or had someone remembered him from the warehouse in Bergen or maybe something else.

It didn't matter how it was a learned fact but it now seemed an irrefutable idea that someone, maybe several people, knew exactly how important the Novak family was in his eyes. Even if it wasn't Meg, it didn't change the fact that their shop, livelihood, and belongings were gone forever. It was possible that even their reputations and esteem – if any rumors spread about Dean and Castiel. Maybe status didn't matter in a tailoring family but Dean knew there would be people who would never talk to Castiel again, never ask the Novaks for work if they knew about their closeness.

There was no way the Novaks could remain in New York, he realized, mouth grimacing at the idea, the removal of such a choice. Frankly, Dean was starting to get tired of this place; the twists and turns, the dramatic pulls his life had gotten – that was the City, but it was tiring all the same.

His eyes were transfixed at the ruins before him. That had once been a home, a store for ten years, Gabriel said. Ten goddamn years.

Watching the shop felt proper, like being at the bedside of someone dying slow or staring down at a hole in the ground until somebody filled it in. Only when exhaustion crept in, made his muscles quiver and his bones ache, his eyesight blur, did he manage to drag his frozen self home. The fire's smoke made his eyes water the entire way, and his thoughts carried a live flame, remembering and imagining at once until that, too, grew old and the light cooled from yellow to green to blue. He recalled Castiel's eyes, so urgent, so expressive and raw, his lips taming his voice into words: _Tomorrow, tomorrow, promise me, Dean, tomorrow_ in his ears.

Castiel as a mental presence was soothing in a way; he didn't reject it like ages ago, but instead let the thought of the other consume his thoughts, propel him forward, guide him through the dark. _Tomorrow, Dean, promise._ He kept picturing the curve of Castiel's mouth as he said that, like he was whispering it into the curve of his shoulder at two in the morning, thinking Dean was asleep next to him. But of course he and Castiel would never do such things again – they were better as friends, if that. If anything. But there was something just, maybe, hopeful about those words. About _tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow. _

He only had so many tomorrows left, Dean figured – might as well make them count.

**xxxx**

**A/N: Crowley's mention of Valentine's Day in 1929 is a reference to the infamous St. Valentine's Day Massacre, where Al Capone allegedly ordered a hit on several members of the North Side Irish gang led by Bugs Moran in Chicago. Seven people were killed. Novikov is one of the most common Russian surnames. On a less technical note, the shop fire was a very last-minute addition to this story. We almost got out of it, I'm afraid. If it explains anything I did really like **_**A **__**Series of Unfortunate Events **_**when I was a kid.**


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